


Male Order Bride

by faeleverte



Series: Male Order Verse [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fake Relationship, Farce, Fluff, M/M, Mail Order Brides, Mission Fic, Resolved Sexual Tension, Secret Identity, Something good happens in Rotterdam, UST, faking not being in a relationship, mild depictions of canon-typical violence, nothing good ever happens in Rotterdam, poor decision making with a head injury, so resolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 219,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1857444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Coulson’s mission is simple: fly to Amsterdam; meet up with a fake mail order bride (a member of Dutch intelligence); fake a relationship; intercept stolen weapons plans; get home in one piece. But it’s the kind of operation where everything that can go wrong does, starting with a mixup in the introduction service paperwork.</p><p>Mercenary Hawkeye’s goal is clear: grab a temporary spouse; keep his real identity hidden; get himself and his partner back to the US; forget that whole failed mission ever happened. Unfortunately he gets more than he bargained for when his groom turns out to be perfect… and hiding a few secrets of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar) for accidentally inspiring this ridiculous creature, for encouraging me, believing in me, and laughing hysterically at me as I flail all over the place while trying to research and write it. Also with so much thanks for her beta work, poking, prodding, and coaxing that have helped turn it into... whatever this is. You're a good friend, a great collaborator, and a really big bully when I need the push, plus you're evil and perfect. And that's why I love you.
> 
> Also thanks to beta [Selana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selana/pseuds/Selana), one of my favorite writers, and a wonderful friend. Knowing I have your feedback and encouragement keeps me going, and I find myself pushing forward so I can tell **YOU** this story. Because I like making you laugh. You deserve it for all the times you've cheered me up, cheered me on, and made my life a happy thing. I'm so glad I know you! Love you lots!
> 
> Male Order Bride will post Fridays. There are planned 15-20 chapters of this chaos and craziness, and I'm working several weeks ahead.

___

 

“Why are you never drinking away the pain?” Jasper Sitwell asked. He was blinking owlishly over the top of his beer. He'd changed into jeans before leaving the office, making him the only one fully out of uniform. “I mean, we’re here like once a month for me or Mars, but you just sit there, sipping happily like your heart is unbreakable. How you do that?”

“Step one is not having anything resembling a love life,” Maria Hill mumbled, swirling the dregs of her third beer in the bottom of her glass. She wore her tight, black SHIELD-issue uniform with the ease of long practice, ignoring the admiring-but-intimidated looks she garnered from every corner of the shabby bar. “Seriously, Phil, when was the last time you got laid? Hell, you’d think you would have an easier time than we do finding someone to warm your sheets.”

Phil Coulson lifted one eyebrow at her. “And just exactly how would I have an easier time? Is there some large segment of the population with a fetish for men with too many secrets and too few hair follicles I haven’t managed to tap into yet?”

“You’d be surprised.” Jasper ran a hand over his polished dome and grinned. “You have good bones; you should try shaving that Captain America-perfect part you have going on.”

A wave of Maria’s gun-calloused fingers interrupted him. 

“I’m just saying,” she explained glumly, “you’re not bad looking. You’re smart. Sometimes you’re funny. And you’re not choosy about girl or boy. You should be able to…” She trailed off, staring vaguely into the middle distance toward the shining bottles behind the bar.

“Mars?” Phil nudged her leg under the table with the polished tip of his shoe. That was usually a dangerous gesture, but she was slow enough from alcohol that he was sure he could dodge a retaliatory kick. He nudged harder. “Mars!”

She swung her attention back and lashed out with a boot. Phil easily pulled his foot out of range; Jasper’s shin wasn’t so fortunate.

“Goddamn it, Maria!” Jasper curled uncomfortably to reach his abused leg with one hand. “That fucking hurt!”

“You were saying?” Phil headed off the drunken posturing with a hand waved between their faces. “I should be able to what?”

“You should be able to walk straight enough to get the next round,” she told him with the deep sincerity of the exceptionally intoxicated. “Although, since you’re not straight…”

“I’m going.” Phil rolled his eyes in exasperated fondness. He slid out of the circular booth and leaned his hands on the table. “You two try to contain the drunken tears. Or at least the drunken snot.”

“You need to get your heart broken a few times,” Maria told him solemnly. “It’s unnatural that you never need to drown your feelings.”

Phil patted her hand before heading to the bar. When he returned with three beers, Maria and Jasper had their heads tipped far too close together, whispering and gesturing. 

“Bad idea, Jas,” Maria said, leaning away. “He’s got a nice ass. We could just work with his ass to set him up and let him get dumped that way.”

“I really just don’t want to know, do I.” Phil kept his tone dry, sliding the drinks across the table. 

“We decided you have a nice butt,” Jas announced loudly, and then his face went through a complicated twist of expressions as he rewound his statement and realized how it sounded; Phil snorted at the horrified look that Jasper's face finally settled on. “Not that I’d know, but I’ll bow to her expertise.”

“Shut up and drink,” Phil grumbled as he slid back in and bumped his shoulder against Maria’s. She went boneless against his side and let her head flop against his shoulder. 

“Hey.” Jasper was plaintive and pouting from the far side of the table. “This is my pity party! Why is he getting all the love?”

“Six weeks,” Maria mumbled, pressing her face into Phil’s shirtsleeve. “‘S been six weeks since I’ve so much as had a date.”

“And it’s been…” Jasper held his arm too close to his face, studied his watch a moment. He blinked twice and then closed one eye before studying the face again, counting under his breath. “... five hours since I got dumped. By text message. Who even _does_ that?”

“You probably deserved it,” Phil told him blandly. He took a long draught from his mug, and then lifted his free arm to swipe the foam from his lip with his thumb. “You’re really a pretty lousy boyfriend.”

“I’m a very good boyfriend, I’ll have you know." Jasper sniffed, offended and haughty. “I’m just a better secret agent.”

“Let’s finish this round and call a cab,” Phil said wearily. “With friends like you, who has time to date? Too busy getting you drunk to go out with anyone else.”

Jasper snorted and downed his mug in steady gulps. “So get a move on with the finishing." His empty glass thunked against the table. “We’re crashing at yours tonight.”

Once Phil had collected his suit coat and tie from the back of his chair, it took Jasper's help to haul a stumbling Maria out of the booth. Leaning together, they all lurched their way out to the street and into the back of a waiting cab.

____

Phil woke exceptionally warm, a bit stiff, and completely pinned in place. He could feel the sun from his bedroom window, warm on his cheek. Obviously, he’d forgotten to close the curtains before falling into bed the night before. He opened his eyes slowly, relieved when he didn’t have pain stabbing him in the face from the feared hangover. Of course, he hadn't actually had that much to drink the night before. Jas and Mars on the other hand… And speaking of the lovelorn duo…

“Hey, guys?” Phil’s voice was raspy from the booze and the late hours the night before. “Jas? Mars? Guys? Guys! Let me up!”

The bed shifted, and there was a moan from the vicinity of Phil’s chest and an answering groan from his hip. 

“My god.” Phil directed his plea toward the ceiling. “Please let me be wearing pants.”

More bed-shifting and the feeling of a hand patting his thigh.

“Yup.” Maria’s voice was muffled under the covers. “Still wearing your work pants, even.”

“Hot damn,” Jasper said, only slightly muddled from where his face was wedged into Phil’s armpit. “No drunken orgies, ‘cause - no offense Phil - but you’re not my type.”

“Get off me, you ass.” Phil shoved at Jasper's shoulder. “Seriously. Everybody off.”

After some further groaning and shuffling, Phil managed to drag himself out of bed. He spared an amused glance at Maria’s bare feet hanging off the side of the bed beside the pillows as he crossed to the en suite. 

“Why’s he always the pillow?” Jasper grouched. “How come you’re never the pillow?”

“He’s got more meat than I have,” Maria answered, flipping the blanket back over her face. “And you’re bony in weird places.”

“Fuck you too, Mars.” Jasper rolled over to his stomach, stretched, and dropped the pillow over the back of his head. 

Phil shook his head affectionately at the two of them and went in to take care of morning business, firmly closing the door behind himself and flipping the lock. Jas didn't always remember to knock after a night out.

____

Phil was working on his first cup of coffee, suit exchanged for a pair of worn jeans and a stretched-out t-shirt, long before Jas and Mars made an appearance. He had a pair of thick boot socks on his feet against the chill of his bare wooden floors, and he leaned against the counter, inhaling steam. He thought over the conversation of the night before.

Yes, it had been rather a long while since he had so much as gone on a date. He didn't particularly feel the lack, however, as frequently as he was out with his friends for companionship. They often ended the night back at his place, since he had the largest bed, and no one was willing to sleep on the crap floors they were all blessed with; they got enough of that on missions. Really, how would you explain that to a potential partner? _You see, I have these two friends that both have PTSD about on par with mine, so when we drink too much, we often get in bed together to keep us all from running into the night and firing our service weapons at civilians. Hope you don’t mind, but they might show up on your feet by morning._

And then there was the somehow yet-stranger complication of his job and the missions that took him out of the country for days or weeks, unable to warn anyone at home where he was going, when he was going, or when he would be back. That tended to put a bit of a damper on the whole relationship thing. Not that Phil was particularly good at relationships _without_ the job, but SHIELD put a whole new level of dysfunction in interpersonal connections.

_And if I keep riding that train of thought, I will get maudlin and pathetic very, very quickly._

It was a relief to open the front door and find his morning paper there as a distraction. This was clearly the kind of morning to start with the funny pages and work backwards.

Phil was on his second cup of coffee when Maria finally stumbled out of the bedroom. He guessed that she had dug up a pair of sweatpants she had left sometime in the past, since they didn’t hang half-off her hips or hit her far too high on her ankle. She'd paired them with one of his t-shirts, and her shower-wet dark hair was twisted in a bun held up by a pen. She twitched her head in his direction in a near-nod, and went straight for the coffeepot. 

“Fury called.” She managed to speak after the first sip, an explanation for why she was up before noon. “You, Jas, and me are being called in. Check your texts; I’m sure there’re details waiting for you.”

Phil sighed and pulled his glasses off to rub his eyes. One Saturday morning with a half-a-pot of coffee and an entire newspaper should not be too much to ask. Just one, once? Fuckit. 

Jasper stomped out of the bedroom moments after Phil had checked his texts. He was still in his jeans from the night before, but he had also dug through Phil’s dresser for a t-shirt. Phil’s glare followed him all the way to the coffeepot.

“Can you people find your own clothing?” Phil's irritation with work leaked into his tone. “At this rate, I’m going to spend my weekends naked from the waist up.”

“I’ve seen your chest hair,” Maria replied. “You won’t be cold.”

Phil gave her a flat stare, and then turned his attention back to the crossword. 

“You two going to help me so I can finish one crossword this week before I have to leave for work?”

Jasper settled in one armchair, and Maria curled on the opposite end of the couch, feet tucked under her for warmth. It was comforting, this. Familiar. Companionable.

And yet, Phil couldn't quite stop himself from thinking about the night before and how different it would feel to have a body in his bed for a reason other than nightmare regulation.

He sighed, slid his glasses back onto his nose and read the clue for thirty-seven down aloud.

___

“Маленький брат.” Natasha poked Clint in the ribs much harder than necessary to wake him up. “Get _up._ ”

“‘M awake,” Clint muttered, dragging his arm out from under the pillow to stretch. “And I’m still not your little brother.”

“Would you prefer ‘asshole?’” she asked acerbically. 

“What’s wrong with ‘Clint?’ It’s an easy enough name to remember.” He continued grumbling to himself as he pushed himself up to sitting, rubbing at his eyes.

“It’s too easy a name to remember.” She turned away, leaning back over the tiny tools and the passport scattered across the floor in front of her. “So you need a new name. How about Anton?”

“Any particular reason?” 

“Because it’s a good name." She glanced at him with a tiny smile. “I like it.”

“Whatever.” He flapped a dismissive hand in her direction, a vague acceptance that she would do whatever she wanted, no matter what he said. “Did you get the papers finished?”

“Nearly there,” she said. “You are now a Russian-born temporary Dutch resident named Anton Vinogradov. Your time here is running out, and soon you will need to return home to your mother Russia. Unless you find yourself a good man to marry you, protect you from Russia’s persecution of all things gay. So now all we need to do is finish your profile on the website, add a couple of photos that highlight your good side, and we can finally pack up and go _home_.”

“I thought you didn’t have a home, Tash.” Clint kept his voice gentle, reaching out to rub a curl of her hair between his fingers. It was good to see it starting to shine again after the dullness that living rough in Russian for nearly a year had caused.

She brushed his hand away impatiently.

“Your crappy little apartment is growing on me.” She sniffed disdainfully and then added, “like mold.”

___

“A mail order bride?” Phil stared blankly at the pages spread out in front of him. “ _This_ is the best cover they could come up with?”

Fury scowled him into silence. 

“Since the plans for that set of weapons went missing from Brown and Richolt a year ago, we’ve been tracking whispers, shadows, and electronic transfers that may or may not have a damn thing to do with them.” He turned to the wall screen and pressed a button on the remote to bring up a series of documents. “To the thieves from the people who hired them. From them to someone else, and so on down the line. There was a murky nine months involving Russia, possibly the Russian mafia, and then a bunch of explosions.” 

The documents flipped to a Chinese intelligence report on a factory that blew outside of Moscow. Phil felt his eyes widen at some of the more colorful adjectives used to describe the size of the blast, the heat of the fire, and the skill level of the people or person who took out the entire facility without ever appearing to have been onsite. 

“The plans appear to have finally ended up in The Netherlands, where an informant tells us that the final sale will be made at a reception held jointly by several mail order bride companies. International introduction services. Whatever they call them now.” Fury shook his head and blinked his eye, looking either bewildered or disgusted; it was frequently hard to tell the difference behind his eye patch. “Anyway, it’s a dance held for the brides and their prospective fiancés. We need to get someone into that reception. Putting someone on the catering staff is out, because Interpol and several of our other international associates will have people in there already. And everyone is always suspicious of the waiters. I need someone who can’t be connected to any of them. So a bride or a groom it must be. There will be some of each, as the companies in question cater to all genders and sexualities.”

“Supposing you get turned on by more than a perfectly filled out requisition form, of course,” Jasper muttered, giving Phil a smirk. Phil kept his eyes on the description of the missing plans, feigning deafness.

“That’s where you come in, Coulson.” Fury glared at Jasper. He’d long since given up on getting the Jasper and Phil to act like anything other than teenage siblings in private briefings, but he did his damnedest not to _encourage_ their competitions. Outwardly, at least. He knew from experience that their one-upmanship led to both of them operating at peak levels in the field. “It’s the best way to give you a legitimate reason for heading over there, for getting into that... shindig. We need you to be completely unremarkable.”

“And it’s mine instead of Jasper’s because…?”

“Because you put on a suit and that little ‘too mild to melt butter' face, and no one thinks you’re anything but whatever you tell them you are,” Fury said. “Look, Coulson, I know this isn’t your idea of a good time, and I know that you don’t like feeling like a whore for SHIELD, but we _need_ this to be you.”

Trying desperately to ignore the amused look exchanged between Jasper and Maria at the end of the table, Phil shoved the documents back into a tidy pile and laid them in the manilla folder.

Phil flipped the file closed and drummed his fingers on the edge of the table.

“Cheese,” Fury coaxed, “in addition to getting into that party, there’s a strong probability we’ll need you to bring one of our Dutch associates back with you to testify, since the legalities are sorta sketchy. We’ll find you a pretty woman, and you know damned well that she’ll be competent, if she’s on this mission with you. You’ll make everyone there and here jealous. Sound good?”

Phil gave him an unimpressed blink. “Not particularly. But fine. I'll read through all of this and write up mission parameters beginning Monday. Should have something solid by the end of the week.”

“Sitwell.” Fury turned to the grinning pair at the end of the table. “Get Phil's cover paperwork together for the Dutch Security office. They’ll get it backdated in the system, so all the proper documentation will be in place before he flies out at the end of the month. And Coulson, don’t forget your wedding gown.”

“With respect, sir,” Phil said blandly, “fuck you very much.”

“That’s why he’s my favorite,” Fury told Maria, and she snorted, pressing her lips together and shaking her head.

“That’s because you’ve both lost your damn minds, sir,” she retorted. She collected the file folders from the table, leaving one in front of Phil before turning to follow Fury out of the conference room. She paused at the door to wink at Phil, and he rolled his eyes at her.

“The two of you are both thirteen years old." Jasper didn't look up as he spoke, watching his pen as he jotted a few reminders on one of the pads of sticky notes that congregated in his pockets. 

“Which makes you our younger brother,” Phil returned. “And I’d prefer a brunette, when you get started on the paperwork.”

“I thought you liked blondes.” Jasper’s eyebrows crawled up his face, full lips pursed.

“I also prefer men,” Phil answered dryly, “but I’d just as soon not get too attached. It’s a mission, not a date.”

“Maybe you could get lucky, and it’ll turn into both.”

Phil stared at him, keeping his expression flat.

“Or maybe not.” Jasper held his hands up in surrender. Then his face split into a broad grin. “But it’s your chance to finally get near someone where you’re guaranteed to at least hold hands and maybe get a kiss or two.”

Snatching up his file, Phil rolled his eyes and stomped from the room.

____

They were back in Phil’s living room that night, drinking again, while Jasper filled out the forms for Phil’s future “wife.”

“You know, Phil,” Maria said from where she was lying on her back on the rug, feet resting on the sofa, arms tucked behind her head. “Maybe you should give the mail order spouse thing a try.”

“Of course,” he answered, frowning at his interrupted crossword puzzle from the morning. “I always did want a wife who is in it for the opportunity for economic advancement, or whose need for a safe environment allows her to be exploited in the interests of shareholder profits.”

“Okay, not ‘mail order bride.’” Maria corrected herself. “But what about online dating?”

“What about online dating?” Phil looked up, confused. “Do you know how difficult security clearances would be with nothing but an online profile?”

“Not really,” Jasper replied with a shrug without looking up from poking on his laptop. “I could do it while you were out for coffee. Facial recognition sent through SHIELD’s servers, a quick run through the databases, and, Bam! Security checked, SHIELD-approved dinner-and-a-movie.”

“That would be abusing resources.” Phil erased thirty-seven down where Jasper had filled in “ASSBALLS” for reasons known only to himself. 

“Getting you laid would be a perfectly appropriate use of resources." Maria sighed and closed her eyes. “If you don’t get some action soon, you’re going to go off-mission and kill a room full of informants.”

“If it hasn’t happened by now,” Phil answered, thinking ruefully of his two year dry spell, “I doubt it’s too big of a risk.”

“Leave him alone, Mars." Jasper threw a own at her. “You know the only thing that gets him hot anymore is the office supply catalogue. I’m not seeing an entry for a girl with staple-remover thighs, though, so maybe we need a backup plan.”

“Brunette.” Phil spoke loudly to drown out their banter. “Female. Curvy.”

“But you like curvy.” Jasper cocked his head to look around his monitor at Phil at the other end of the table. “I thought you were going for what you don’t like.”

“I’d like something nice to look at while we’re on this mission.” Phil shrugged. “And there’s supposed be dancing. At least give me a pleasant armful.”

“You’re an old fart, Philip,” Maria said acerbically. “One of these days, someone is going to come along and remind you that you’re alive below the waist.”

“He needs someone to remind him he’s alive above the shoulders,” Jasper grumbled, fingers clattering over the keyboard.

Phil just laughed and downed his whiskey before answering fifty-nine across.

“Put that thing down and come answer the personality questions.” Jasper scored his chair to the side to make room for Phil.

“I’m getting in on that action.” Maria rolled gracefully to her feet. She stretched her back, and popped her neck, movements betraying the deadly grace of her training. “This part should be fun.”

____

“So what’s your pleasure?” Nat paused on the preferences portion of the dating website, fingers hovering over the keyboard of her laptop. 

“Mmm, I want a man." Clint dropped into another lunge, stretching his arms over his head. “Although that’s mainly because the probability of getting someone to show up sooner rather than later is higher. Age? Go with… forty to sixty. Blue eyes, hair… whatever color his hair is.”

“Careful, Clint,” Nat said, lips barely shifting into a Mona Lisa smile. “You’re getting awfully close to describing your perfect man.”

“Hardly.” Clint snorted. He changed legs and lowered his hips into another lunge. “I don’t want some boring-ass accountant who thinks it’s exciting to rescue a Russian boy from the evils of home. I want a man who appreciates my talents as much as my ass. And who appreciates my ass for the fine piece of muscle it is.”

“I don’t think we’ll find _that_ on this site,” Nat told him. 

“Good thing I’m not _really_ looking for a husband then, huh.” Clint straightened and crossed to the tiny room’s single bed to drop a kiss on Nat’s flaming hair. “Anton needs to exist just long enough to get us both home, and then he’ll disappear and I can go back to plain old Clint. We’re gonna be okay, Nat. I promise, we’re gonna get out of this.”

____

Jasper sat at his desk, flipping through requisition forms for the team he had been overseeing. He wished he had more leeway to tell Michaels no, just because the man was an unendurable ass. Sadly, his paperwork was always flawless, so Jasper scrawled his name on the bottom and reached for Agent Halliwell’s. Her forms always needed a touch-up, but, as she was neither evil nor whiny, Jasper never minded doing a little extra work for her. He signed off on her request for a new suit to replace the one lost to gorilla spunk on the mission in Dallas and started to make a note to ask her what he’d missed in her report and then decided that, really, he didn’t want to know.

He was about to close the whole packet and turn off his computer when his office door slammed open, crashing against the wall, to admit a Phil Coulson who was shivering with emotion, hair wild and eyes wilder.

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” Phil demanded. He brandished a handful of papers at Jasper, and Jasper considered ducking. He’d seen Phil incapacitate a man with less. 

“Hello, Philip,” Jasper said with a bright, fake smile. “Nice to see you, too! Of _course_ I’d love a cup of coffee, seeing that it’s so early in the morning. My weekend was lovely, and so was my date. And how have you been?”

“ _WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?_ ” Droplets flew from Phil's lips as he screamed, and it was the first time Jasper ever understood the phrase "spitting mad." “ _DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU GOT ME INTO? DO YOU KNOW HOW INCREDIBLY FUCKED I AM RIGHT NOW?_ ”

“Well, I’m sure I was thinking only of you, as always.” Jasper decided that flippancy was his best defense until he figured out what he was defending. He clicked his pen closed and threw it on the desk. “So why don’t you tell me what I supposedly did to fuck you over, and I’ll see what I can do to fix it.”

“You… this… A bride… and it’s…” Phil gave up trying to speak and threw the papers he was holding down on Jasper’s desk. 

“Looks like it’s all in order,” Jasper said, flipping over a few pages.

“Look again,” Phil gritted from between clenched teeth. “Read a little more closely.”

Jasper thumbed through the pages, mouthing words. And then his hands slowed as what he was reading began to sink in.

“Wait…” he said slowly. “Phil, does this say… Why is… This is not…”

“You got me a _real_ bride, Jasper,” Phil said, voice dark and angry. “There is someone waiting in Amsterdam expecting their prospective husband to show up. And they’re going to get me. On a mission.”

Jasper sat staring at the pages in front of him, frozen in place. He finally shook himself and looked up at Phil.

“Okay.” Jasper plastered a fake smile on his face and forced his voice into cheerful brightness. “We can fix this. _I_ can fix this. I just need to send a couple of highly-encrypted emails, and we’ll get this straightened out in no time. You just… you just go back to your office, and I’ll send the revised information to you in just a little bit.”

Phil glared at him, then turned on his heel to sweep out of the office. Just as the door swung shut behind him, Jasper grabbed his phone and hissed desperately into it: “Mars, I fucked up so badly. You’ve gotta help.”

This was what came of matchmaking while drunk. Jasper really had thought he was filling out the documents for the fake agency Dutch Intelligence had created, but he'd been so blurry after half a bottle of tequila. He had only had the real forms there to compare, to double-check his Dutch associate's work. He knew she was competent, but it never hurt to have another pair of eyes.

On the plus side, Phil hadn't yet appeared to notice the other change Jasper had made to the requested partner. Really, if he could just get this part fixed, Phil would forgive him when he realized he'd get to spend a month in the company of a skilled, talented, understanding-of-the-job man.

____

“Sorry, Coulson.” Fury handed back the papers after reading over them. “It’s too late to change all of this now. You’re just going to have to go over there, try to keep your bride out of harm’s way, and delay the wedding until you’ve completed your mission, then get the hell out without too many hurt feelings.”

“I’m fairly certain that I’m not anyone’s dream man.” Phil raised one eyebrow. “I doubt that leaving someone behind will cause too much of a broken heart.”

“You might be surprised, Phil.” Maria stretched toward him and patted his arm comfortingly. “And, who knows, maybe you’ll take a liking to her and want to marry her anyway. Stranger things have happened.”

Phil stared blankly along the conference table until Maria was forced to look down at her tablet.

“What if I need to bring someone back to testify, Director?” He swung his gaze back to Fury.

“We’ll figure that out when we get to it,” Fury replied. “Just get packed up, and we’ll have a car to take you to the airport outside your place at six am sharp.”

Phil pressed his lips together and let a long, deep breath out of his nose. Hopefully the rest of the mission would at least vaguely resemble the plan as outlined.

____

“Nat.” Clint broke after an hour of silence, grabbing her arm as she placed her hand on the knob to open the door. To leave the safety of their hotel room. To go to the airport where Clint would prostitute himself for the cover that would get them back to the US. To meet the man Clint would have to pretend to fall in love with while making damn sure the guy fell for him, too. “I can’t do this. I _can’t_ do this!”

“Breathe, Anton,” Natasha said, her voice sharply Russian. She reached up to place a hand gently on either side of his face, pulling his forehead down to hers. “This is just mission. You can carry out a mission. You distract and distance and get through this. You don’t have to sleep with him. You simply have to make him _want_ to sleep with you. You can do that.”

“Every step of the way, this mission has been one giant fuck-up.” Clint could hear how plaintive he sounded and he hated it. “What’s to say this part won’t go the same way, Nat?”

“Natalya.”

“What?”

“Call me ‘Natalya,’ брат,” she pressed her hands together, squeezing his face. “Remember this.”

“We were supposed to _keep_ the plans from being stolen, and that went to hell. And then we were supposed to get them back, but instead we somehow end up being chased through half of Russia and most of Eastern Europe with no plans in our possession and no idea where they ended up. We never did even figure out who actually got to them in the first place. I’m just tired, Nat. Alya.”

“Seduce businessman who wants to save you from your sad history of persecution in your native Russia, love.” She paused to pull him down further and drop a careless, damp kiss to his forehead. “Give him happy memory of being wanted by pretty young man. Then you rest.”

“Fine. But you get to hold the sign.” Clint pulled out of her grasp and tried to smooth down his hair. “I’ll be in the can or something. I want a look at this guy before he gets a look at me.”

“Fine. Now put on your Russian face, and let’s go before we’re late, eh?”

____

Stepping off the plane in Amsterdam, Phil flashed his badge to get through customs without having his briefcase searched. It could prove awkward to explain how the documents that needed to be signed once he got there were already signed. He rested the case against his ankle while he swung his jacket around his shoulders and started looking for the sign that his new almost-wife would be holding for him. 

Yay. Just what he’d always wanted.

And there it was. “Phillip Marcus.” 

The last name had been Maria’s contribution to the entire absurd production. “Everyone knows you’re Fury’s bitch, Phil. And no one but you and I and Jas here would connect that name to Nick. So you’re golden.”

Too sleepy or too drunk to come up with a better rejoinder, Phil had shot back, “You’re a bitch.”

And then they devolved into teenage insults for several minutes, only coming up for air when Jasper announced he was done with the paperwork. Obviously, Phil shouldn’t have let Mars bait him like that; he should have been keeping a closer eye on Jasper and his forms. He _should_ have filled them out himself.

Shaking off the memory and the annoyance that came with it, Phil walked toward the sign being held above the heads of the crowd of people waiting for those disembarking. He noticed the carefully manicured nails (blood red) wrapped around the edges of the posterboard, and then saw the thick mane of hair (scarlet red) below the sign. The woman had sharp, regular, beautiful features with full lips and wide, smoky green eyes. Her cheekbones were highlighted with the perfect dusting of blush, and her skin was flawless. 

Why was _this_ woman looking for a husband via an internet agency? Every man within twenty feet was watching her with a great deal of interest.

And then she spotted Phil moving toward her and started forward to meet him.

“Mister Marcus?” she asked, her throaty Russian accent making his name exotic in her mouth. Phil suppressed a shudder; this woman, with her brilliant eyes and controlled movements would not be easy to fool.

“Yes.” Phil fumbled his briefcase to his left hand, holding out his right. “Just… I’m Phillip.”

The woman took his hand, studying his face. Her English, when she continued, was clear, charmingly Russian, and obviously designed to disarm.

“I am Natalya Vinogradov. My brother, Anton, will be back in a moment. I think he was nervous about meeting you.” She nearly smiled, a small, thin thing that didn’t approach her eyes. “He very much liked what your profile said, and he has been very hopeful that you would come, would marry him and take him with you to bright, new life. Unfortunately, he does not speak so much English.”

“I… brother? That’s…” Phil fought the urge to simply sit down in the middle of the floor. He blinked a few times and straightened his shoulders. “Charmed, Ms. Vinogradov. I’ve been looking forward to meeting Anton, too. I hope my Russian is adequate.”

“There he comes now,” Natalya nodded over Phil’s shoulder, and he turned to greet the man (as apparently Jasper had gotten that part wrong, too, the useless, incompetent, worthless asshat) to whom he would be expected to propose. 

_Jasper was going to die. Painfully. In the messiest, most untraceable manner Phil could manage. And he knew of at least thirty methods that would suit, offhand._

And then Phil caught sight of Anton, and the shrieks of reuniting families and the false joviality of international coworkers faded to a mere hum in the background, the lights went soft, and Phil stopped breathing. 

_Jasper needed a fruit basket. No! Beer of the month club! No! Strippergrams daily for a year! Jasper was a god among men, Cupid walking the Earth with fluffy wings and a heart of gold._

Anton was… perfect. Dirty blond hair lightly gelled into messy spikes on top of his head; a handsome, but not beautiful face; crooked nose that spoke of a few rounds of fisticuffs; perfect mouth with a bottom lip made for pouting; strong cheekbones; and _Holy Fuck!_ shoulders that seemed to go on forever beneath a soft, blue t-shirt. He stopped in front of Phil, and Phil lost his breath in another punch of physical attraction as he got a good look at the changeable blue-green of Anton’s eyes.

It was only when he noticed that Anton’s lips were moving and that a small frown of confusion had grown between his brows that Phil determined he had zoned out a bit too long and was staring in a manner that was far closer to the “creepy” than the “admiring” end of the scale. He mentally shook himself and internally demanded that he stop acting like a junior high girl, then offered his hand to Anton and dragged up a less poleaxed expression. 

“Hello,” Phil pulled out his barely-rusty Russian. “I’m Phillip. Your… your pictures didn’t do you justice.” He had never _seen_ pictures, of course, but Anton didn’t know that. And Phil was going to play this with everything he had. If he had to fake-woo a man like this one, he'd damned well figure out how wooing worked! Besides, there was no way a photograph could ever adequately capture _that_.

“Flatterer.” Anton’s eyes sparkled behind his stoic expression. “Your eyes certainly didn’t show up in the pictures. Gorgeous.”

Phil felt himself blushing and wondered that his face remembered how. He thought he’d gotten it out of his system during the first two years at SHIELD when he’d been befriended (or possibly been taken hostage - it was hard to tell some days) by Jas and Mars. In the early days of their friendship, they'd made it their mission to test Phil's tolerance for mortification. Or, maybe, they had just been preparing him to resist all psychological torture that could devised by any evil organization. 

“Let’s get your luggage.” Anton gestured toward a sign directing passengers to baggage claim. “Then Natalya and I will drop you off at your hotel, so you can relax for awhile. And then maybe you and I will have supper together?”

“I’d like that, Anton,” Phil told him sincerely. He decided he liked the idea even more as Anton led the way, and Phil found himself with unfettered access to ogle Anton’s backside in a pair of comfortably-worn, snug-hipped jeans. _Oh, this is going to be distracting while on assignment._

After collecting his suitcase and the garment bag holding two spare work suits and one that was rather nicer, Phil found himself wedged against the side door of a taxi with Anton’s broad shoulder bumping his own as they shifted around corners. He forced himself to concentrate on the conversation, agreeing to a time and place to meet, and then they were pulling up to the front of his hotel and Natalya was saying goodbye. Anton simply smiled at him, just the slightest bit. Phil hoped his reply to the sister had been at least mostly polite; it was hard to tell when he couldn’t manage to drag his eyes away from the brother, though.

He shook his head and walked into the hotel to register and find a shower - preferably cold.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re thinking with your dick again, Clint,” Nat told him coldly. “You know what that gets you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (there was an error in this chapter that was corrected on 5 Sep 2014: Waarzegster used the pronoun "I", which is something Zeg does _not_ do. Apologies.)

“Jesus _FUCK,_ Nat!” Clint threw himself onto his back on his uncomfortable, too-narrow bed. “I am so, _SO_ fucked. Do you know how bad this is?”

“Of course I know, младший брат,” Natasha said, sinking gracefully to sit on the side of her own bed. Her eyes were very serious as she studied his face. “The question is, do you?”

“Did you _see_ his eyes, Nat?” Clint covered his face with both hands. “And that jawline. God, I just wanted to bite him. Do you think he’d let me? Just once?”

“Clint…”

“Come on, Nat,” Clint flopped onto his side, curling into a ball and grinning impishly. “I gotta try to hit that at least once. You know that, right? I mean, I’m sitting there waiting for some boring-ass accountant with ED and a savior complex, and in walks that jaw and the sparkle in those eyes, and I’m _not_ supposed to want to get a piece?”

“You’re thinking with your dick again, Clint,” Nat told him coldly. “You know what that gets you.”

“Got me you.” Clint smiled disarmingly. Nat softened at the edges, not relaxing enough that anyone else would notice, of course, but Clint felt the warmth that didn’t reach her eyes like a physical caress over his face. 

“So because you got one miracle, you expect them to keep happening all the time?” She slipped the jacket of her tailored suit off and hung it on the back of their single, straight-backed chair. “Besides, your dick has had no say in our association in many years now.”

“I know.” Clint sat up, looping his arms around his shins as he pulled his knees to his chest. “Not looking for a miracle this time, but I wouldn’t object to an orgasm in company. Just for the variety. My left hand and the unfortunate hot water problems in this place don’t exactly scream ‘romance.’ But I just wanna suck him off once. Get him off, get me off. We can both leave happy.”

“Don’t be a child about this, Clint,” Nat said. She gracefully walked across the room to sit beside him, running her nails over his scalp as she reached out to pet his hair. “You have no idea what he’s capable of, and you _must_ stay on your guard.”

Clint closed his eyes as he leaned into her touch, nearly purring as she wrapped an arm around his shoulders and rubbed his back. “Aww, Nat. You know I’m indestructible.”

“We have to get out of this country.” Nat reached up, gripping his face firmly to force eye contact. “If he’s not as he seems… But he’s all we have right now. I can’t kill him if he…”

“If he what, Nat?” Clint leaned his forehead into hers. “I’m bigger’n him. I can take him if he gets handsy.”

She sighed, suddenly looking years older, worn in ways that even Clint couldn’t imagine. “I want to stop you. I… I don’t want to need you to do this. But…” She bit her lip. “I’m just tired of running right now. It had been so long since… and then this year.” She looked away, blinking rapidly, and forced her tone deliberately lighter. “And I would like to go to sleep in a real bed again.”

“You’re always telling me my bed doesn’t qualify as real.” He dug an elbow into her ribs gently, letting out a giggle (a manly giggle, he hoped) as she retaliated by digging a finger between his ribs. “What made you change your mind?”

“Sleeping in the crap hotels you keep insisting are required for our cover.” She leaned back, dragging Clint down beside her, bodies pressed close to fit on a bed barely designed for one. “At least your bed has enough room for me to stretch when I wake.”

Clint hummed in his throat and kissed her on the temple. 

“Not much longer,” Clint said into her hair. “I’m going to be _fine_ , Nat. You’ll be with me almost every time I’m not in public with him, and I can always use the excuse that my sister needs me home. He knows I’m not alone here.”

She wiggled closer, resting her head on his bicep. “There is that.”

“I’ll find a way to get loose early tonight,” he told her. “Meet with our contact, and see where we stand. We’ll be home soon, сестра.”

“Always your sister,” she agreed, curling her arms between their bodies and tucking her head under Clint’s chin. 

Having Natasha close to him brought out every protective tendency Clint ever had. He tightened his arms around her slender shoulders and held on as tightly as he dared. This plan, when he had come up with it, triggered every one of her deepest fears, longest-held insecurities. Clint had hurried to assure her that he would take point, put himself out there as the bait, keep her safe. Her days of selling her body for dubious protection were long over, and he would never put her in the position of compromising herself for him. Sure, Clint had used sex as a commodity in the past; it never really bothered him. But, as a fairly large man of reasonably indifferent sexual preferences (aside from "frequent" and "enthusiastic"), he'd never been forced to fear sex, to fear being wanted. 

He stared at the ceiling and pictured Phillip's eyes, glowing with admiration, remembered the goofy little smile Phillip had worn the entire taxi ride. Yeah, Clint's only fear there was that the whole thing would fall apart before he got himself a taste of that mouth. With a snort, Clint pictured Phillip's embarrassed little flush as he’d been caught staring. Most of the men who might have come for Nat wouldn’t be the kind who tried not to stare, who cringed away when the movement of a car squished them together. Clint had seen the sort of men who wanted to take women far from their home, and he would _never_ let one of them near Nat when she wasn’t allowed to fight back. He sighed, held her close, and closed his eyes to take a nap before his dinner date with Phillip. 

_A little beauty sleep never hurt anybody._

***

The blue silk tie had long since been removed and stuffed in Phil’s jacket pocket, collar opened two buttons. He was starting to think that maybe he’d made a slight mistake, ordering wine with dinner. Okay, it was probably a big mistake. Bordering on epic foolishness, maybe. But Anton’s warm gaze, casual compliments, and easy touches were going to his head far more than the alcohol. The more those gorgeous eyes stared at him, the more Phil leaned toward them. Every time those even, white teeth sank into that pouty bottom lip, Phil had to remind himself not to tip forward and lick. Two glasses in, and Phil realized he was completely screwed; anything Anton offered Phil would be hard-pressed to say no to, even though he knew any offer would be made under a certain level of emotional duress. There was just no way someone like Anton would look twice at Phil without the promise of escape Phillip Marcus offered.

Anton sprawled in his seat, draped to offer optimal visual enjoyment. The sheen off his purple silk t-shirt highlighted the swell of muscles across his pectorals and the ripple of his six-pack abs. The sleeves were more than a bit too tight across his biceps, and there were extra knots that suggested a lot of fine work with his fingers. Phil stared at those fingers, noting a few callouses in interesting places. Maybe woodworking? Metalwork? Construction? He still couldn’t get a read on who Anton was. Other than an enchanting man who wanted to know all about “Phillip’s” job, laughing about the printer incident (that was a true story, at least). 

"So it really tried to eat your tie?" Anton asked. "You don't look like you would usually have trouble with office equipment." He bit his lip as his eyes began a minute study of the gaping collar at Phil's throat, and Phil tried to remember if he'd dribbled something down his chin while engaged in his arm-ogling.

"It was the first time the office has tried to kill me." Also true; the job usually only became dangerous when he left headquarters. Anton laughed again, and Phil lost track of what he was saying as he watched the play of muscles under that absurdly slinky shirt.

Anton gave a low hum of approval and then, inexplicably, blushed. Phil tried to get a grip on himself-- _figurative_ grip on himself-- as Anton looked away, tried not to remember the way he’d noticed Anton’s slacks hugging his sublime ass as they’d walked to the table.

Phil started off the night hating himself a little bit for his inability to resist the allure of this probably desperate young man ( _When had someone only a few years younger than I am become a “young man?”_ ) who was just trying to make nice with the rich guy in the suit. There was one moment where Phil started to wish, desperately, that he _was_ that rich guy in a suit. That he could take Anton home, offer protection, offer a future and warmth. That he could be allowed to want as badly as he did every time fingers brushed the back of his wrist, settled on his arm, rested for a moment against his own fingertips.

By the time his third glass of wine disappeared Phil stopped the self-flagellation. A fourth took away the guilt, leaving only a rush of pleasure when skin touched skin. It was heady, addictive. To be touched so casually, so warmly. Every momentary contact made Phil want more, need another hit. He started reaching back, letting his fingers rest against Anton’s on the edge of the table, shifting until their feet brushed, and then twisting slightly to let their knees bump and hold. Phil lost himself in the contact, not realizing they had both fallen silent, sitting and staring at each other, until Anton shuffled a bit and looked away.

“Would you like to go dancing?” 

Phil took a moment to translate the question in his mind, and even longer to translate his own reply back into Russian.

“I’m… not much good at dancing.” He could feel his ears turning red. “It’s been a few years since I tried, and I wasn’t… I couldn’t… I didn’t….”

Anton turned back with a smile and gave a rich, throaty chuckle that fizzed along Phil’s nerves. “You’ll do fine. All you have to do is move with my body.”

Mouth completely dry at _that_ mental image, Phil nodded dumbly and took Anton’s outstretched hand. He stumbled a bit as he climbed out of the booth, head light from the wine. And how much had Anton drunk? Not enough, obviously, since Phil was fairly certain a good two-thirds of the bottle was sloshing around in his own bloodstream, making his head light. Making him bold. Making him horny...

 _Mission, Phil. This is a mission, and you can't afford to get wrapped up in mooning over some guy._ He followed Anton's well-formed ass through the restaurant, admiring the ease with which Anton slid around the close-packed tables. Phil stumbled once as they stepped out the front door, and Anton looped an arm around his waist to steady him as they waited for their ride. 

Standing there, held close by one of those solid arms, Phil found the only sign of an imperfection he'd seen yet in Anton's glory. One tiny bump in his ear: a hearing aid. And that was when Phil broke.

His own arm came up to circle Anton, pulling him close enough that Phil could dip his chin to rest on one of those massive shoulders. Anton gave a pleased rumble and leaned in, fingers shifting Phil's jacket out of the way to clutch at the shirt underneath. For this one night, Phil would be what Anton thought him. Just for now, he could offer comfort, warmth, and a solid place for this persecuted piece of gorgeous humanity to rest.

Phil would later blame the wine for the flowery, utterly ridiculous nature of his thoughts.

Dropping into the back seat of the cab, Phil's arm curved around Anton’s shoulders when he felt the muscled hardness lean into his side, pulling until they again were pressed tightly together. Anton leaned his forehead into Phil’s cheekbone, and Phil shivered. It was just so _good_ to have someone’s breath against his jaw, the shifting of another person touching him with the swaying of the car around corners. To have someone so close. Turning his head to nose along the edge of Anton’s hairline, Phil let his lips brush long eyelashes. Phil’s other hand came up to reach for Anton’s neck, fingertips brushing over the steady throb of a pulse. Taking a deep breath, Phil tried to force his arms down, tried to lean away, but _skin! Such nice skin! Such warm, living, beautiful skin!_ Phil stroked his fingertip over and over the softness of that pulsepoint. Anton closed his eyes and nosed into Phil’s neck with another deep rumble that sounded like a purr. Phil’s brain shut down for a moment. 

_How long has it been since someone touched me like this?_ Phil rubbed his cheek against the soft, golden-tinted ruffle of Anton’s spiky hair. _How long has it been since I’ve gotten to touch?_

Dancing was a bad idea. And was sure to lead to _more_ bad ideas. Phil wasn’t sure he would be able to control himself; he was way too drunk to be thinking rationally. Then Phil felt Anton’s breath beneath his collar, lips graze his throat. He stopped thinking about his objections to dancing and started thinking about what it would feel like to have Anton moving in his arms, against his chest, against his hips. He tightened his grip on Anton’s shoulder, trying to get closer to the heat, the very _aliveness_ of him.

 _It's just this one night._ He reminded himself. And then, plaintively, he thought, _Oh, please want me too..._

***

Clint gave the cab driver the name of the club where he’d agreed to meet his informant. He was fairly certain that taking his… that taking Phillip along was a bad idea, but he couldn’t bring himself to send Phillip away just yet. Clearly, Phillip had a bit too much wine at the restaurant, but it made the lines between his brows relax, made the edges of his smile creep infinitesimally higher. Made him a bit more responsive to touch. Made him more likely to initiate the touch. Sinking into Phillip’s side in the backseat of the cab, letting his lips brush the soft skin at the hollow of Phillip’s throat, Clint allowed himself one pang of regret at knowing that he couldn’t drag Phillip off to a hotel and blow his mind and his dick at once after that much alcohol.

 _Drunk people can't consent_ , he bitterly reminded himself. Didn’t mean Clint couldn’t enjoy just a little bit of touch tonight, though, right?

 _Maybe he'll sober up if we stay out for awhile_. Natasha was gonna kill him for even thinking it, but it'd been so damned long, and Phillip smelled so damned good.

The club was an epilepsy risk, with dark corners and flashing, twirling lights as the only illumination aside from small pendant lights over the bar. Clint laced his fingers with Phillip’s to lead the way onto the dance floor. Finding a gap in the throbbing, rocking mass of people, he turned and slid an arm around Phillip’s shoulders, pulling their chests close and their hips closer. His other hand reached out to rest on Phillip’s ribs, and he froze for a moment, shivering at the feeling of taut muscles under the expensive cotton shirt. Phillip seemed to have more going on than just a pair of pretty eyes and a sexy jaw.

_Maybe a bit more than just a blow job, or at least he has to be fully naked for it. Just so I can look a little, of course._

Taking a shaky breath, Clint let the steady thump of the bass settle his heartbeat, and he began rocking his hips and shoulders lightly to the beat. Phillip touched the back of the hand on his hip and slowly slid his palm up Clint’s arm, squeezing lightly at Clint’s bicep on the way by, to rest his palm against Clint’s shoulder. Phillip’s other hand came to rest on Clint’s chest. Clint tightened his grip a bit, leaning in to let their noses brush, their breath mingle as Phillip started to move with him.

For a few minutes, Clint lost himself in movement, in Phillip. He forgot his objective, pushed away all thoughts of the mission that had gone so far south that it wasn’t so much “pear-shaped” as “penguin-shaped.” He managed to ignore the fact that his contact was waiting for him - over by the bar, no less. It had been so goddamned long since he’d gotten laid-- _Stupid, fucked-up, piece of shit mission!_ \-- even longer since he’d felt this electric hum of attraction under his skin. For the space of two thumping songs, Clint allowed himself the luxury of want, and the world was rightside up and a good place to be. He let his hands wander under Phillip’s jacket, snaking around to stroke the muscles that rippled up Phillip’s back with each fluid slide of his hips. This-- this touch, this movement, this smell of cologne-- was hypnotic, and Clint let himself become hypnotized. 

Phillip, for his part, seemed just as entranced. Clint had somehow gotten a thigh pressed between Phillip’s legs, and Phillip was rocking against him, practically grinding, breath ragged where it tickled along the side of Clint’s neck. He was hard against Clint’s hip, and Clint wanted to press his own hardness in, rub them together until they both came in their slacks, right here on the dance floor. Nosing along Phillip’s perfect jaw got the same shiver it had garnered in the cab, and Clint let his lips rest against the skin, barely prickled with new-growth stubble. Phillip pulled back, and, when Clint looked up curiously, he found blown pupils and a bitten-red lip and a look of obvious _want_ on Phillip’s face. 

_And there is no way I’m saying no to_ that _invitation!_

Slipping both arms around Phillip’s shoulders, Clint straightened his spine to rest their foreheads together. He took a deep breath, and decided to just go for it, leaning in another centimeter. He licked his lips, and Phillip’s breath stuttered again. Their mouths brushed lightly and

“Fuck!” 

Phillip pulled away as a sudden buzz against Clint’s groin made them both jolt. Reverting to Russian and yanking his phone out of his trouser pocket, Phillip apologized as he backed away. “Excuse me! I just have to check… It’s my boss, I… I have to answer. Back in a few minutes. Wait...” And he darted away through the twirling, flashing lights.

Clint stood alone in the middle of the floor for a long moment, watching Phillip’s suited form wiggle through the other dancers as he headed for the door. He sighed, closed his eyes, and tried to regain control of his breathing (and his groin, but best not think about that right now). Phillip just had a call. He’d be back. After that near-kiss, of _course_ he’d be back.

A hand on his hip had Clint’s eyes snapping open, and his body twisting away. A large red-haired man leaned close enough to shout in his ear in Dutch.

“I wouldn’t leave you standing all alone out here!”

Clint took another step back, bumping into someone behind him, and his adrenaline kicked up. 

“Not interested.” He held both hands up in front of him, palms out, ready to fight if he had to, cover or no cover. He was here with Phillip, and he was no cheater. And, wow, where did _that_ thought come from? 

The guy shook his head, rolled his eyes and started to move away. “Just give me a nod when you’re done robbing the old man,” he shouted over his shoulder.

Clint took a deep breath to settle his nerves. He’d been living undercover for far too long, clearly. Seemed his reactions couldn’t tell the difference between being made and being flirted with. Speaking of flirting, where was Phillip? And did that guy actually call him an “old man?”

Phillip? Really? Was this guy blind that he couldn’t see what was there under that suit? Phillip wasn’t much older than Clint, although he had a few extra years on Anton (Nat had insisted on playing up Clint's baby face). He had the kind of eyes that’d seen things, seen the world, survived a few unpleasant things and had managed to overcome them. The sardonic, self-deprecating humor was clearly a learned behavior. And, god, the physique that perfectly-tailored suit was covering! That Phillip? Not old. Aged to perfection, maybe. Had lived life well, certainly. 

_And I really hope he’s about to come back and give me that kiss he was offering…_

Another person, tall, slender, and of indeterminate gender, wearing tight black pants and a loose black sweater, approached with an eyebrow raised in curiosity. Clint caught sharp dark eyes under a cascade of thick, dyed-black, chin-length hair. He nodded and shifted, letting them crowd into his space, lean against his body, wrap long, thin arms around his shoulders.

“You are the one they call ‘Hawkeye?’” the person asked in English, red-painted mouth brushing against Clint’s ear. Clearly his contact knew about the tiny, near-invisible bit of technology that helped Clint hear, then. 

“Am I to assume you’re The Fortune Teller?” After a day of speaking only Russian, Clint felt like he was dragging his mother tongue up from his shoes. He knew, of course, exactly who this contact was, as he'd been Nat's eyes on high during their negotiations, sniper rifle trained on Zeg's porcelain-smooth forehead, smooth alto voice clear through Nat's microcomm. 

“Call us Waarzegster.” Waarzegster shifted in closer, fitting their chest comfortably against Clint’s as they danced, shoulders and hips in sync with the beat and Clint's fluid movements. “We have the information your partner paid us to collect.”

Clint saw Phillip appear at the edge of the dance floor, looking worried. Clint backed his hips away from Waarzegster, trying to maintain the appearance of separation, locking eyes with Phillip, trying to beg him to stay put, to not take this personally, to give Clint just one minute and then he would explain… or distract. _Please, Phillip, just…_

Phillip stayed put, and his expression slipped to confused, maybe a little hurt. 

_Aww, no, baby._ Clint tried to convey his thoughts with his eyes and expression. _Only you tonight, I promise. Just need a minute. Please give me one quick dance here, and I’m all yours._

“We have heard nothing about the Vinogradov siblings,” Waarzegster said, jerking Clint’s attention away from Phillip’s deep eyes. They sighed against Clint’s ear and leaned their head down to rest on Clint’s shoulder. “There is also nothing about Hawkeye and Black Widow being seen in the Netherlands, although we have heard an unsubstantiated rumor that they were last spotted in Belgium.”

Waarzegster hummed thoughtfully. 

“For the usual fee, we can substantiate that claim, and perhaps add firm information that the duo was booked for Paris.”

“Just keep an eye on your bank account, then,” Clint answered flippantly, smiling openly, wickedly at Phillip now. He let his eyes smolder, begging Phillip to get a little closer. Phillip pushed into the crowd and began stalking toward Clint, movements predatory. Clint turned, dragging ‘Zeg around with him. “See the guy in the suit?”

“The one who was practically fucking you while you danced?” Waarzegster chuckled against Clint’s ear. “Indeed. Handsome. Less dangerous than your usual type.”

“When he gets here, I need you to go.” Clint deliberately ignored the innuendo, choosing not to speculate as to whether they meant Nat or any of his other… associates. 

“Twenty seconds to contact.” Their voice dripped amusement.

Clint felt arms wrap possessively around his chest from behind, making space between Clint’s body and ‘Zeg’s. He dropped his head back to rest against Phillip’s shoulder, and turned his face to nuzzle into Phillip’s cheek. Waarzegster smiled and raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“He’s been waiting for you,” ‘Zeg said in Dutch to Phillip. “Wouldn’t let us do _anything_ fun to him.”

And then only Phillip was wrapped around Clint, arms squeezing, hips pressed against Clint’s ass, rocking them both with the manic thrum of music.

“Sorry for running away like that,” Phillip said in Russian, lips brushing the shell of Clint’s ear. “But I’m back now.”

Twisting in Phillip’s arms, Clint slid his hands around Phillip’s waist, pulling until there was no empty space between them. Almost as an afterthought, Clint let one hand slide down and grabbed himself a handful of Phillip’s very muscular, very attractive ass.

The resulting squeak of surprise was the cutest sound Clint had ever heard. 

_I am so fucked._ He squeezed gently and had to fight off a giggle at the tiny hiccup in Phillip’s breathing. _So, so fucked, and yet I don’t actually seem to care._

Clint melted when Phillip gathered him in, one broad hand splayed across Clint’s back, the other sliding down his hip to clutch at his thigh, fingers digging into the crease of his ass. His head tucked into Phillip’s broad shoulder, face pressed against Phillip’s neck, lips just touching the skin above Phillip’s collar. They moved together, no longer writhing to the music, instead just shifting against each other, fingers stroking gently where they rested, Phillip rubbing his jaw against the sweaty blond spikes of Clint’s hair. Clint closed his eyes, stunned at how _safe_ he felt. This was good. Nice. Comfortable. (Clint’s brain added _terrifying_ ; he told it to shut up.)

Eventually, Phillip disentangled his arms from Clint, stepping away. Clint instantly felt cold all along the front of his body. 

“I have to get back to my hotel.” Phillip reached out to run his fingertips along Clint’s jaw. “My boss was expecting me to call him back at least thirty minutes ago, but I…” His voice trailed off, and his expression went soft. Clint though he looked a little hopeless, and he desperately wanted to do something to wash it away. “I hate them. Every single person I work with. Right now, I genuinely hate them.”

Clint smiled awkwardly, unsure of what answer Phillip was looking for and leaned in, resting his palms against the solid expanse of Phillip’s chest and tipping his head to lightly bump his nose against Phillip’s cheek.

“It’s okay.” He pressed a kiss to Phillip’s jaw. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Come on, Anton.” Phillip was clearly shocked, fingers tightening where they rested on Clint’s hip. “I’m not leaving you _here_. We’ll share a cab back to your home?”

“And then?” Clint couldn’t help the hopeful note that crept into his voice. 

“And then I will kiss you goodnight on your doorstep, and I will call you in the morning.”

The cab ride was torture, with Phillip’s hand wrapped around Clint’s own. Their shoulders were pressed together, but, no matter how many times Clint glanced over, Phillip didn’t seem to be looking back. When they pulled up in front of the shoddy building where he and Nat shared a shoddy room, Clint refused to let Phillip so much as step through the door. So there, on the crumbling front walk, Clint finally got his first kiss from Phillip.

It was a chaste sort of kiss, just a warm, soft press of lips. Except that it went on a few seconds too long. Or several hours not long enough. Clint felt his heartbeat kick into overdrive, and he wondered if there was any polite way to say “Please do that again, but make sure you pin me against this here graffitied brick wall.” 

“We’ll talk in the morning,” Phillip whispered, pulling away only far enough for the words to escape. And then he turned and walked away, and Clint watched him go with a strange combination of butterflies and dread in his stomach. 

Opening the door to their room a few moments later, Clint met Natasha’s worried eyes and announced, “I underestimated the level to which I’m fucked.”

She spent the next hour going from yelling at him for being careless to tenderly fussing over his bruised feelings. It was terribly unsettling, and Clint finally retreated into feigned sleep where he could wrap himself in his daydreams and the touch-memory sense of Phillip’s body rocking against his own.

***

Phil spent the entire ride back to his hotel licking his lips, searching for traces of Anton, and wishing the ride were half the distance. A quarter of the distance. Anything shorter, really, so he could get out of his suit and relax. He needed some time to process what was going on with this mission. What on Earth had possessed him to just go up to Anton and start grinding on his ass when that… person was draped all across his chest? Phil was not normally so… domineering. At least, not in his personal life. Maybe Phillip Marcus was. That had to be it. Just… getting into the role. 

Shucking his jacket as he walked through his door, Phil draped it over the back of the desk chair and let memories of the evening pour over him. The callouses on Anton’s fingers dragging across the back of Phil’s knuckles. The warmth of that perfectly muscled body leaning into his chest. The softness of lips against his throat. Phil kicked his shoes off and dropped onto his bed, back bouncing against the mattress.

Maybe Maria and Jasper were right. It’d been too long since Phil had been involved with someone. Anyone. Phil was used to being able to keep his _urges_ under control, but there was something about Anton, something that sparked electricity under Phil’s skin. It wasn’t only the urge to protect that had woken upon seeing that Anton’s hearing aids; there was a need to get to know the man behind the perfect body. 

Sighing, Phil finally acknowledged that this was just his way: find someone attractive and get eaten alive by a desperate need to see if he could care about them. 

No. No, it couldn’t just be that this time. He was on a mission, dammit. There wasn’t time, energy, or brain power left for a crush. It was just the ridiculous length of time since he’d last had sex in company and the excess of alcohol and the warmth and the soft, fluid movement of…

_Goddamn Jasper. And his meddling. And his piss poor timing._

The phone call that had interrupted that first almost-kiss-- Phil didn’t think he’d _ever_ forgive Jas for that one. Because that kiss… that kiss would have been perfect. Phil pressed the soles of his feet into the bed, lifting his hips and remembering what it felt like to press against Anton, to have Anton press into him. 

_Jasper must die._

Only fair, really, since this op was going to kill Phil. Seriously, he should probably just write out his last wishes tonight, before calling their informant (whose number Jasper had been calling with). Certainly his will should be checked before he saw Anton the next day, at the very least. 

Phil’s phone buzzed from across the room.

_Fucking cockblocking Jasper Sitwell…_

Rolling off the bed, Phil dug the cell out of his jacket, pressed the green button, and held it to his face. 

“What?” he snapped.

“This is SHIELD?” asked a gentle voice, speaking English with a delicate hint of a Dutch accent, velvety-smooth with enough resonance to be a man, but high enough to be a woman. 

Phil sat abruptly on the chair, the semi that had grown with thoughts of Anton vanishing with surprising swiftness, now that there was work to do.

“Yes.”The last of the wine vanished from his system as his brain snapped back to Agent Coulson mode. “This is the Fortune Teller?”

“We are Waarzegster. We have the information you have requested.”

“The second half of the funds will be wired to your account immediately following this call,” Phil flipped open his laptop, pressing his fingerprint into the hidden plate on the side to activate the secondary hard drive. He quickly set up the transfer, hand hovering over the enter key.

Waarzegster gave a soft hum of acknowledgement and then continued. “Someone knows your agency is in town. The plans are rumored to be arriving in the city tomorrow night, and they will be moved every night to destinations not yet decided upon. The transfer to the final buyers will take place at a gala event in four weeks, although it is unlikely you will be able to get into the event as a guest at this late of a date. If you wish to collect them, you should do it during a move. You will receive a telegram in two weeks with an address. We do not know if it is where the plans have been or where they will be going after, but we will try to update you as the information becomes more transparent.”

“Are you one of the interested parties?” Phil knew that SHIELD was unlikely to use Waarzegster if they were truly a world security risk.

“Not for one moment.” There was a slight pause, as if they were contemplating how much to say. “We do not wish to have something so… tangible. Information is a safer commodity, as it’s more difficult to steal, easier to carry, and can be bartered for safety. We are, however, acting the role of the interested buyer, and we will continue to pass what we learn to you in exchange for the agreed upon sum.”

“Understood,” Phil pressed the button to complete the transfer.

“There are many organizations in town already, and more coming in within the week. We will not pass on names at _this_ time.” Phil didn’t miss the emphasis and made a mental note to collect Waarzegster’s file to see just how far they could be trusted.

“Understood,” Phil repeated. “And thank you.”

“Mmm, we thank you,” Waarzegster’s voice was a satisfied purr. “This sum is… somewhat more than was originally agreed upon.”

“Good service deserves a tip.” Phil hung up without waiting for anything else.

The phone was dropped unceremoniously onto the desk, computer shut down, and Phil gave up for the night. He stripped off the rest of his suit and left it piled on the floor as he crawled between stupidly high thread-count sheets in nothing but his overheated skin and the glow of his attraction to a pair of gorgeous blue eyes and a pouting mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4th, American friends! Happy Friday to the rest of you!
> 
> Next time: Regretting Choices, a moment of panic, and a second date
> 
>  
> 
> _If you need more summer hilarity, check out[Kathar's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar) weekly serial [Washed Ashore](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1831450/chapters/3933808). You'll laugh, you'll laugh 'til you cry, you might cry, AND there are chickens!_
> 
>  
> 
> Your kudos and comments are always welcome and have been ABSOLUTELY OVERWHELMING! I had no idea this crazy little idea would be so popular (or would get SO LONG!). Thank you all, for your million kindnesses and the laughter you're sharing. You're all my favorites!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint pulled out his cellphone to send a message to Natasha.
> 
>  
> 
> _Nrly had problem. Have to seduce him now. Have to. Also, might be too good for me. Am fucked._

Clint shoved himself up on his narrow bed, groaning as his muscles unkinked from the way they had been locked to stay within the confines of his mattress. Natasha’s bed was empty and neatly made, and there was no sign or sound of her moving around in their tiny quarters. There was, however, a ridiculously cheerful warble from somewhere on the floor, and he flopped over to dig through the pockets of his slacks for the phone with one hand while he collected one of his hearing aids off the nightstand with the other. He also made a quick mental note to seek revenge on Nat for changing his ringtone again. When he tugged the phone free and pressed answer, he grunted in greeting, not up to speaking yet.

“Anton?” Phillip’s smooth voice rippled through Clint’s ear, pouring warmth across his cheeks and down his neck like hot water. 

“Phillip,” Clint replied, letting himself flop back against his pillow. His own voice was still hoarse with sleep, and he was pleased by the catch in Phillip’s breathing at the roughness.

“Did I wake you?” It was irrational to get turned on by Phillip’s polished Russian, given his own skill in languages, but Clint could feel his blood heating anyway. 

“I’m late waking today.” Clint stretched and then ran a hand down his belly, stroking his palm over the outside of his underwear; he forced his breathing to stay controlled. “I had an enjoyable evening last night. After I got in, my sister said I needed to stop talking about it, but I couldn’t. The man I was with was too nice, too handsome…”

“I’m glad you had a good time.” If it was possible for a voice to blush, Phillip’s was beet red. Clint slid his hand inside his briefs, keeping his touch light, keeping from making himself moan; wouldn’t do to have Phillip think he was some kind of kinky freak-- even if he kinda was. “I am sorry about waking you, but… I wondered if you’d like to have breakfast with me. I just found out I have some work to do later today. Teleconference." That came out in English. Phillip swore softly and returned to Russian. "Meeting on the phone. And I’d really like to talk to you first. I _need_ to talk to you.”

Clint pulled his hand free and sat up, feeling like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. Like a hair dryer on an ice cube, worry was rapidly eroding his erection. “Phillip? What’s wrong? Are you… have I done something to upset you? Or…”

“Anton, no!” Phillip’s voice went tight. “No! You’re… you’ve been perfect." It was too early in the morning to swoon, wasn't it? But dammit, perfect just wasn't a word Clint heard often. "I just… there’s something we should discuss. Soon. Over breakfast? Please?”

After agreeing to meet in about an hour, Clint hung up and sat on his bed, one hand pressed to the center of his chest, trying to figure out if he’d fucked up his cover. Or, worse, if he’d done something to lose Phillip’s interest. And it was a sure sign of how incredibly screwed he was if he was more worried about getting laid than getting home. 

Good thing Nat wasn’t there to do her creepy "read Clint like a book while looking disapproving" thing. He was certain _that_ thought would earn him her vocal disapproval and a few disparaging remarks about carrying his brain in his pants.

He huffed a sigh and rolled off the bed, going to grab a quick shower before he dressed. At least his concern over Phillip’s sudden “need to talk” meant that Clint didn’t need any extra shower time to be able to decently fit into his tight jeans.

When Phillip finally strolled into the restaurant they’d settled on, Clint nearly swallowed his tongue. Phillip was wearing jeans, baggy through the thigh, but just the right amount of hug to the ass. And a soft, thin v-neck shirt in a greyed shade of blue that perfectly accented his eyes. And a worn leather jacket. The real killer, though, was a pair of heavy-framed glasses perched on his crooked nose. Clint was certain he’d never wanted to taste someone’s mouth so badly in his entire life. 

“Phillip!” Clint stood up as Phillip approached the table, smiling shyly, taking Clint’s hand when it was held out. “I’m glad to see you this morning. You look… You are…”

“Good morning.” Phillip bent forward slightly, as if he was thinking of placing a kiss on Clint’s face, and Clint was enthusiastically in favor of that idea; he let himself hope for it to land on the lips. Disappointment bit at his stomach as Phillip just squeezed his fingers before backing away slightly. “Would you mind if we got coffee before we talk?”

Clint swallowed hard and tried to smile as he sank slowly back into his chair. They managed small talk about their orders and the weather for a solid twenty minutes before Clint was crawling out of his skin and his conversational input had shrunk to one word replies. Phillip’s forehead creased, and he reached over to collect Clint’s fingers from the edge of the table. 

“Anton,” he began, and Clint took a slow, steady breath. “Look, I’m not angry at you. I’m not, and you have in no way done anything to upset me. It’s me. I’m angry with myself. With how I acted last night.”

Oh. That was not what Clint was expecting to hear.

“You did nothing wrong!” he twisted his wrist, turning his hand palm up to clutch at Phillip’s wide, strong hand. “Nothing! You were a perfect gentleman!”

“No, I really wasn’t.” Phillip’s ears turned a delicate shade of rose, and Clint bit his lip to keep from leaning over to brush the warmth of the color with the tip of his tongue. “I… I felt like I took advantage of you, of this situation. You… I’m sure you expected you’d have to… that I’d demand… I know you were expecting to have to go to bed with me. But I don’t expect that. I… I wouldn’t force you to do that. I have no expectations of a, er, physical relationship. Not before the wedding, certainly. And not after, either! I mean, I wouldn’t… you don’t have to…”

He stuttered to a halt, and Clint bit the inside of his own cheek to keep from laughing. He looked down as if processing, hiding his face while he tried to get his hysteria under control. Was this guy real? How could he be real? Also, was Clint getting turned down before he’d even made the offer? Dammit. No. He was _not_ leaving this country without getting on his knees for this man at least once! Between the sexy and the accent and the chivalry, Phillip deserved _some_ kind of action!

"Phillip," Clint said at last, looking up to find the blush had begun an incursion into freckle territory on Phillip's cheeks. "It's fine. You're fine." You're damn fine, he added mentally. "I was not uncomfortable with anything that happened last night. I like you. And, if this should become... about bodies, I'm okay with that, too."

"I'm not." Phillip's jaw clenched, like the words were being forced through gritted teeth. "It would be taking advantage of you. It would be coerced. I don't want you to think that sleeping with me is something you have to do to hold my attention. I was drunk, and was way... over the line."

The idiom didn't translate well, but Clint got the idea and felt himself shrink a little. He’d thought that Phillip wanted him as much as he'd wanted Phillip. But it was hard to deny the proof that was not the case, with Phillip so earnest, so determined. So _ashamed_.

Then again... Clint closed his eyes, breathing deeply to calm his suddenly skittering nerves, and pictured the night before. Not the dance floor, because that was the kind of mental image that he'd either get lost in or would cause him to lose all self-control and accidentally climb over the table to hump Phillip's leg. Instead he thought of what came after: the kiss as Phillip had walked him to the door. The way Phillip’s lips had clung to his own as they’d both slowly pulled away. Phillip’s hand sliding so slowly, reluctantly off of Clint’s hip as he’d turned to go back to the taxi. There had been desire written in every moment.

“I… understand,” Clint said at last, voice thick. And that was the kicker here; he _did_ understand. Phillip was an honorable man, not a spy, a merc, a soldier of fortune like Clint. He was a normal guy with a normal life and a normal job. He was here to look for true love or something similar, and he was afraid of taking advantage of some desperate Russian kid. Clint’s stomach dropped as he realized how much _using_ a man like this sucked. 

Lifting Phillip’s hand, Clint pressed a kiss to the roughness of Phillip’s knuckles. 

“I do understand,” he said again, looking hard into Phillip’s eyes. “And I want _you_ to understand that I think highly of you. I did not, for one minute, think I’d ever meet someone like you.”

Phillip seemed to catch the truth of Clint’s words and he flushed again. 

“Eat your breakfast,” he said gruffly, squeezing Clint’s fingers before pulling his own hand away. “We could… take a walk when we’re finished?”

Clint released his hand and turned back to his food. He let himself wish, for one wistful moment, that he could marry this man. That he really could keep him. But, since that wouldn’t happen-- _couldn’t_ happen-- he’d find some way to give him a good few weeks. And maybe, just maybe, if he played his cards just right, he’d get at least one good orgasm in for both of them. He chanced a look at Phillip where he was gulping coffee. Eyed the big hands around the mug, the firm line of his jaw. 

_Maybe a couple of orgasms,_ he amended.

 

As they set off down the street, Anton shoved his hands in his pockets so Phil did the same, reining in his disappointment at the clear lack of permission to touch. But what else could Phil expect, really? He knew he was no one’s idea of “ideal,” with his mousy looks and made-up, boring job. There was no way someone like Anton would _actually_ be interested in Phillip Marcus. No way he'd be interested in married-to-his-work Phillip Coulson, either, for that matter.

Phil had taken the time to look up Anton’s profile on the online introduction service that morning. According to it, he was a former circus performer-- trapeze and acrobat, and Phil’s imagination had taken his libido into overdrive at _that_ mental image-- who had to quit performing after an injury. He was also a former professional athlete, although the blurb had been vague as to what sport he’d played. And he was hoping to go to school in the US after finding true love. How could Phil even _hope_ to catch someone like Anton’s attention for real? He was fairly certain that “middle-aged, lives a life of secrets, and has a touch of PTSD” were not high on anyone’s list.

“What do you like to do when you’re not working?” Anton’s voice and shoulder-bump interrupted Phil’s train of thought. “What do you do to let go and relax?”

“I’m not sure I’m ever not working, these days.” Phil sighed. “But I have a couple of friends that I go for drinks with sometimes. Jasper and Maria."

"Are they... a couple?"

"No! Fuck, no!" Phil shivered at the thought, and Anton, seeing the response, threw his head back to laugh. 

"It would be bad, then?" Anton asked lightly. "If they were together."

"I think it would be a risk to global security." Phil grinned to himself. "They fight non-stop, fight with me constantly, and there are no two people I trust more in the world."

"I wish I could meet them." Anton sounded slightly wistful. "How did you get to know them?"

"We all met through work. We were in the same training class." Well, they had gone through academy together. Close enough. "We got into a kind of competition for the first part of it, and then we decided that forming a team would get us all further."

"And has it?" Anton slid a hand out of his pocket and slowly wrapped his arm through Phil's. Phil leaned into the warmth against his side, because his own body had clearly decided to mutiny and ignore all orders from his brain.

"Yes, I'd say so. We've all done pretty well for the company and ourselves."

Anton hummed pleasantly, a small smile curving his lips as he turned his head to look straight into Phil's eyes. "I'm glad to hear it."

Phil stopped walking without realizing it, lost as he was in staring into Anton's bright gaze. He licked his lips, starting to lean forward without conscious volition, heart stuttering as Anton leaned in, too. His brain kicked back into gear just in time for Phil to pull back sharply. He pinned his eyes on the toes of his shoes, desperate not to see relief cross Anton's face at Phil managing to keep his word. 

"I'm... I'm sorry." He pulled his arm out of Anton's grasp and resumed walking. "I have to get back to my hotel. It'll be time to call my office soon, and I have some papers to go over first."

More like he needed another cup of coffee and some time to give his dick a stern talking-to, but it wouldn't do to say that aloud. 

"Phillip!" Anton caught his arm, pulling him around. "Wait, please! If... if you don't want me, please tell me now, so I'm not wasting your time. Please!"

Anton's changeable eyes were dark, intense, and his lips were pressed together, nearly pouting. A grown man should NEVER be categorized as "adorable," but Phil couldn't think of another descriptor for the sulky face in front of him. His fist clenched to keep from reaching up to boop Anton's bottom lip. 

"Anton," Phil said, voice thick, the words forcing their way out in spite of Phil's desperation to hold them in. "I can say with absolute honesty that not wanting you is not the problem. But I can't feel like I'm forcing you. I just can't."

Apparently his mouth had joined his body's rebellion, because Phil didn't recall giving it permission for honesty hour. It was probably Jasper's fault, too.

Instead of answering, Anton leaned in and pressed one quick, gentle kiss to the corner of Phil's mouth.

"Then you will call me when you are done with your work." He gently squeezed his hand where it rested on Phil's bicep. "And we will go out again, when you will get to know me better. Maybe I can prove that I am not forced."

"I..." Phil forgot what he was trying to say as Anton kissed the corner of his lips again. 

"Talk to you soon. And see you tonight." 

Phil stood, struck dumb in the center of the sidewalk, watching Anton's flawless ass as it walked away.

Clint got around the corner without stumbling, a fact which made him inordinately proud, and then he threw himself against the window of the nearest shop to keep his legs from collapsing. He pressed his hand over his heart to keep the thundering from working its way out of his ribs. A few minutes of limp panting got his breathing under control, and Clint pulled out his cellphone to send a message to Natasha.

_Nrly had problem. Have to seduce him now. Have to. Also, might be too good for me. Am fucked._

A reply came through seconds later. "Meet me in room. Keep your head in the game."

Easy for her to say, with her lack of a gorgeous man being all perfect and hot in front of her. He stuffed the phone back into his jacket and stomped down the street, muttering to himself in Russian about the ridiculous expectations of sisters who thought they knew everything.

Natasha was sitting on the chair when Clint unlocked the door to their dilapidated room, arms crossed, legs crossed at the knees, a scowl on her perfect features. She didn’t speak as he slipped his jacket off and threw himself down on his bed, face burrowing into his pillow. She aggressively kept her silence as he wiggled around enough to kick his boots off his feet, flexing his arches as he tried to dig his body deeper into the lumpy mattress. 

Clint broke first, as he always did.

“I thought he was going to dump me today. I’m still… I still think he might.”

“Oh, Маленький брат,” she soothed, the chair creaking as she stood, but her feet were noiseless as she moved across the floor to sink onto the edge of Clint’s bed. “What have you done?”

He shoved himself up, twisting to face her and folding his legs in one smooth movement. “What the _hell_ makes you think this is my fault? I didn’t do anything! He’s the one with the problem!”

“Clint, I’m sorry!” She reached out to brush her fingers down the side of his face. “I thought you meant that you _thought_ you had done something wrong. I wouldn’t believe that you actually _had._ ”

“Oh.” Clint puzzled over that a moment. “Yeah, I do that, don’t I.”

“So tell me what’s happened, and I will tell you to stop jumping to horrible conclusions, and we will _fix_ this. Without you having to behave like a prostitute.”

“It’s not like that,” he told her, looking down at his hands as he picked at a callous on the tip of one finger. “He’s just… I’m not sure how he ended up signing up for this, to find himself a husband like this. Maybe he was hoping this was just like some normal kind of dating service? I dunno. Anyway, he thinks that I’m… that he’s pressuring me… that… He thinks I’m really Anton.”

“This is different for you than any other undercover job we’ve taken, isn’t it.” Nat’s voice made the words a statement instead of a question. 

“The targets before have always been bad guys or spies.” Clint pulled his knees to his chest, looping one arm around them and rubbing the other over his head, knotting his fingers in his own hair to pull gently at his spikes. “Phillip is _nice_. I don’t like lying to him. If he knew who I was, what I _really_ needed him for, he’d understand that I just want to fuck him because he’s hot, and not so I hope he marries me and takes me away from my life of deprivation and persecution.”

“Oh, Clint.” Natasha shifted closer so she could wrap her arms around his shoulders and pull his head to her shoulder. He buried his face in the flame of her hair, closing his eyes and relaxing as he breathed in the light scent of her shampoo. “Tell me what he said, and we will figure this out together, yes? I think that, if he’s not looking for sex, then maybe he likes you for you. After all, what’s not to like about my brother?”

Natasha sat silent for so long after Clint finished explaining the phone call he’d received first thing the morning and the breakfast that followed that Clint thought she’d fallen asleep. He was debating the risks of poking the world’s foremost female assassin in the ribs when she finally gave a thoughtful hum and pulled back to look him in the face. She pressed a kiss to each of his eyes, and one to his nose before she finally spoke.

“You’re compromised, Clint.” Her face was deadly serious but her voice was strangely gentle. “You have quit thinking of this as a mission. You have quit thinking of him as a target.”

“He was never a mark, Nat.” Clint heaved a sigh. “He was a means to an end. A different name to leave under, a watertight reason for leaving Europe that wouldn’t catch any computer’s attention. Common name, and just one of a crowd of Russians and their American boyfriends.”

He rumbled a purr as Natasha’s hands petted through his hair, nails scuffing against his scalp. 

“But you are interested in him?”

“No. I mean _yes_ , but not like that. Mostly, I’m afraid that he’s going to get too squicked out by the whole thing and leave me stranded.” He sighed again and shrugged. “We don’t have time to find someone else. Phillip is our one shot out of here. And, after the way this mission has gone… I just want to wash my hands of it and get the hell out.”

Natasha blinked at him, slowly, and then an uncharacteristically mischievous smile played across her full lips. 

“What if I told you that I _may_ have found a way to get back the weapons plans before time for you to fly off toward the sunset with your blushing bride?” She chuckled, a rich, dark little sound that boded no good for someone. “What if I told you that I know where the plans will be, _might_ be able to find them before that, and that we could retrieve them for our employer?”

“What do… You mean we could actually _finish_ this piece of shit mission?” Clint felt a grin growing on his own face. “Keep us from having wasted an entire fucking year of our damn lives?”

“ _And_ give you enough time to get your loverboy out of your system before we go home.” She unfolded from the bed and stood, looking fondly down at Clint’s smile. “I need to go meet one more informant. I have heard a rumor that SHIELD has joined in the chase now, and yet I cannot find the identity of the operative they sent. You relax this afternoon and get ready for your date tonight.”

“Mm, yes.” The muscles that had almost relaxed with the news that Nat was working on pulling off a miracle bunched tightly in Clint’s neck at the reminder. “What am I gonna do about him?”

“You’re going to charm him, Clint. Not seduce him. Charm him. Play up your hard-knock life and desperate hope for a future.” She smoothed his hair carefully. “Let him be your hero, but don’t frighten him off.”

“Yes’m,” Clint answered, giving her a cheeky smirk. He didn’t let himself think about his desperate need to see what Phillip was hiding under his dress shirt until Nat had left the room, the door closing securely behind her. When she’d gone, he flopped back on the bed, letting his imagination roam across the body he’d felt rubbing against his own.

Charming without trying to seduce was going be the hardest job Clint had ever taken on, and he lost himself in forming a strategy, rather than in getting himself off. 

Phil wryly accepted a single glass of wine with dinner that night, forcing himself to drink it slowly, trying not to become intoxicated by the drink or by the sparkling eyes of his dinner companion. And Anton _was_ sparkling. He told story after story in rapid-fire Russian about the training he'd received as a boy, first from a swordsman who taught him to fence, to shoot a bow, and to swallow swords. Phil had excused himself to the restroom after _that_ admission, needing a moment to splash cold water on his face and compose himself. He patted his face dry wondering if a gag reflex was something that ever came back, or if it, like an appendix, was something that was gone for good once it was removed. 

Thoughts directed that way led to madness, so Phil screwed up his willpower and went back to the table, turning the conversation to Anton’s later years as he sank back into his seat. Those stories were not really any better to hear, however, even as Anton tried to keep his tone light. The words themselves were dark. He spoke of a life of deprivation, lacking in closeness, only his one sibling, from whom he seemed to have been separated for a time, as family. No serious-sounding lovers, no friends who drank too much and fell asleep in weird positions on his bed. It was clear that there was frequent hunger, cold winters without adequate shelter, and far too much fear and loneliness for his still-young years.

“But life is better now,” Anton told him seriously. “I have Natalya, and Natalya has me. We have a decent home, even though the hot water can be a little… ehhhhh.” He laughed, one smooth bark of genuine humor. “And maybe, maybe now I have a Phillip? And maybe now a Phillip has me, too.”

Phil felt his cheeks heat, and he wondered when the last time he’d blushed so much in a three day span was. Probably never, to be quite honest. Even as a child, Phil didn’t often end up in situations that felt so entirely out of his control, and he knew his body had never been so rebellious. Even his teenage hormones didn't shut down his brain so completely. He knew positively that he’d never found anyone quite so attractive, quite so fascinating as the handsome near-stranger across the table from him. Looking down to fiddle with his napkin, Phil took a deep breath to try to calm his suddenly-racing heartbeat.

Anton reached across the table, snagging Phil’s hand, and Phil looked up slowly. 

“I must apologize,” Anton said earnestly. “I made you uncomfortable, throwing myself at you. You are a handsome man, though. But I will respect your boundaries. I…” He cut off suddenly, making a strange face as a soft song with a techno beat rolled out of his pocket. “Is sister. She knows I am with you and wouldn’t interrupt for less than an emergency. Excuse me. Please. I will be right back.”

Watching Anton walk away from the table was its own reward, and Phil found himself chewing on his bottom lip, staring at the point where Anton had ducked out of view. He gave himself a mental shake and took another sip of wine before rubbing a hand over his face. He rested his elbows on the edge of the table, steepling his fingers in front of his face and closing his eyes to let himself focus on his _actual_ mission, now that his beautiful distraction was temporarily removed. 

He’d gotten through a lot of the intelligence reports that various European intelligence agencies had sent via SHIELD that afternoon, and he was starting to form a plan to do a bit of data collection of his own beginning the first of the next week. He'd need to meet with someone from Dutch intelligence before that, if he could manage, but it was nearly the weekend, meaning a meeting before Monday was unlikely. Which, of course, left him only three days to continue having his brain scrambled by a brilliant smile, a pair of teasing eyes, and the finest ass he’d ever seen in person. Add to that the bulk of those biceps under Phil’s fingers at the nightclub the night before…

Phil wished Anton spoke English. His own Russian was adequate for work-related conversations, but he didn't know how to explain that Anton's eyes were the most mesmerizing things he'd ever seen. Or that Anton's ass looked as if it was carved solely to fit into the curve of Phil's palm. He wasn't sure of the correct verb to include to say "I want to pin you to the nearest wall and ravage your neck with my teeth." Not that Phil would have spoken any of that aloud in either language. Not that Anton would want to hear it if Phil could bring himself to speak so plainly.

Okay. Clearly not able to actually focus on the mission yet. Phil opened his eyes just in time to see Anton walking back toward the table. He couldn’t help staring, since the front view of Anton in motion was just as nice as the back view had been. Dragging his eyes up from the in-depth study of a glorious set of pectoral muscles, Phil found Anton frowning at him, eyebrows knitting together in a worried scowl. Phil offered a hesitant smile, wondering how intense his own expression had been and knowing the heat was building in his face. Again.

“You looked upset.” Anton eased himself back into his seat, reaching over to wrap his fingers gently around Phil’s wrist. “I hope I wasn’t gone too long.”

“No. Just thinking about work.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, after all.

“My sister found us a job for tomorrow. It may take all day. Possibly all weekend.” Anton squeezed Phil’s wrist. “But I don’t like to miss out on time with you.”

“That’s fine,” Phil answered. “I assure you, it’s okay. Jobs take precedence. What… what work do you do?”

“Entertainment.” Anton rubbed the back of his own neck with his free hand. “Acrobatics, fancy shooting, sometimes aerial work. For private parties and big productions, that sort of thing.”

“I wish I could watch you.” And that was the most honest thing Phil had told Anton yet.

“Maybe someday you will get the chance." Anton glanced away, blushing as his eyes returned to Phil's face. "I would make the show perfect for you.”

“I believe you.” And that was even more honest. “Maybe there will be time to make it happen before…” Phil trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. “I’d like that.”

“I would, too.” Anton smiled again, just the softest curve to his mouth. “But right now, I am tired, and I need to get rest for morning.”

“I’ll ride back with you,” Phil told him, standing and holding out a hand to help Anton also rise. Once they were both on their feet, Phil couldn’t force himself to release his grip, and Anton seemed quite content to weave their fingers together, their palms tucked warmly against each other.

As they shared a cab back to Anton’s building, Phil let himself cling to Anton’s hand, let their shoulders press together, pushing harder around corners. And, when Anton asked if he could have one kiss goodnight, Phil couldn’t tell him no. Anton’s hand cupped the edge of Phil’s jaw, guiding their lips together in a soft, warm press, much like their first kiss.

“Goodnight, Phillip,” Anton whispered, mouth still against Phil’s, and then he grabbed one more kiss, adding a flick of his tongue to Phil's bottom lip before turning to open the door to the building. “I will talk to you tomorrow, and I will see you no later than Monday.”

The ride back to Phil’s hotel was just as long, just as uncomfortable, just as frustrating as it had been the night before. He couldn't decide if this was the best or worst mission he'd ever been assigned. 

_Only three days without Anton, at most. That’s not much. I can…_ Phil let the thought trail off as he walked into his room, peeling off his jacket and already heading for the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: 
> 
> The Mission finally starts to grind into motion; we meet an old friend of Jasper's; nobody _wants_ to go to Rotterdam
> 
> Posting a little early today, as my evening is trying to get busy on me. Not _that_ kind of "get busy." Get your minds out of the gutter. Actually, don't because you won't appreciate this story if you do. 
> 
> So much thank you to everyone who's reading along and leaving me comments that brighten my day (and fix my mistakes. I'm so sorry that got past me!). And all of you with the itchy kudos button finger, you guys are awesome!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clearly, it was a very good thing he was getting a day (at _most_ a weekend) away from his ridiculously beautiful, ridiculously addictive distraction.

Phil woke when the alarm on his phone chirped the ridiculously perky little ditty Maria had set to annoy him the last time she’d stayed over. He rolled to his stomach and fumbled around the nightstand. There were several thumps and clatters as he knocked the phone, a glass of water, his watch, and the book he’d been reading (staring blankly at while imagining Anton’s muscular ass grinding into his crotch at the club) onto the floor. Leaning over the side of the mattress, he eyed the mess on the rug. Water had splashed onto his watch and his discarded boxers, but the watch was water resistant, and he had no intentions of putting fabric against his body just yet. _Especially_ not the boxers he’d been wearing the night before. They’d come off when he finally threw the book aside, flung the sheets back and let his imagination run wild, but he was fairly certain they hadn’t escaped, er, _unscathed_. For now, he simply shrugged at the morning-topical destruction, reached down to snag the phone, and silenced the alarm.

Shifting back onto the bed, his day began to sort itself out. A Day Without Anton (and maybe a whole weekend, too, please no). He needed to schedule a meeting with his Dutch counterpart, check with the concierge about dry cleaning services, and put out some cautious feelers to start identifying which intelligence agencies and which less savoury groups had people in town for the Big Sale (If the item being sold made things explode, could it be called a _Fire Sale_? And no, that was bad, even for Phil). It would be easy to stay busy. Easy to avoid thinking about Anton, about the warmth of his hand wrapped around Phil’s, the soft, sure way he kissed, the ripple of his muscles as he moved with that uncanny grace, the way he fit into the cradle of Phil's hips, as satisfying as tucking in the last piece of a puzzle.

Phil groaned and buried his face in the pillow, trying to ignore the insistence of the heat pooling in his groin. His hips shifted against the bed, and the warmth began to burn hotter. Hunching his shoulders let him get a hand shoved underneath himself, palm cupping himself as he writhed, grinding down harder, picturing what Anton’s back would look like, flexing, tensing, arching below him. Phil’s teeth clamped down on his pillow, imagining it to be the thick meat of Anton’s shoulder. His hips were bucking all the way off the bed, knees and toes digging deep to give himself purchase as he fucked into his hand. Breathing growing harsh, he remembered the heat that had built between them on the dance floor, the way Anton’s hot, wet mouth had slid over his throat, the strength in those nearly superhuman arms as they’d wrapped around his shoulders. He was growling with every breath by the time he got to the way Anton’s thigh had felt, pressed tight between his own, providing the perfect pressure on his aching, rigid cock. His eyes squeezed shut, orgasm flashing through him, groaning Anton’s name as he came.

Flinging the covers off and flopping over to his back, Phil stared blankly at the ceiling as he tried to get his breathing under control. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up with such an insistent case of morning wood. Well, other than the day before... His clean hand scrubbed over his face, trying to force down the blush he could feel growing across his cheeks. Clearly, it was a very good thing he was getting a day (at _most_ a weekend) away from his ridiculously beautiful, ridiculously addictive distraction.

Phil groaned and rolled off his bed to shower away the evidence of his morning (and the previous night) before his check in with SHIELD.  
___

Natasha’s utilitarian buzzer alarm jerked Clint out of the arms of sleep and into a world that was far too bright and far too full of the dazzling morning person that was his pretend-sister. And this was why he preferred taking his hearing aids out at night; the morning after was otherwise a chaotic hell of too much sound. She was already speaking, words tumbling out at warp speed while Clint was still trying to get his eyes to focus together. Her voice dimmed slightly as she went into the bathroom, and then it became muffled and muddy around her toothbrush. Didn’t matter that much; Clint still hadn’t gotten enough neurons firing to understand a single word she'd said so far. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to a doze.

There’d been a dream… something warm… so much heat… and… wetness. A mouth. Clearly, he’d been dreaming about a mouth. Wrapped around his… 

Ohhh! Oh, yes! 

That had been Phillip in his dream. Naked. On his knees. Those giant hands of his wrapped around Clint’s hips, fingers digging in with enough force to leave bruises. Clint rolled to his side to keep the profile of the sheet that was draped across his waist from putting his _interest_ on display. Maybe Nat would shut up and Clint could get a second to deal with the problem in a semi-enjoyable, slightly hurried manner. Maybe Nat would decide to go out for breakfast and Clint could get several minutes to deal with the problem in an actually-enjoyable manner in the shower.

“So you need to be dressed in seven minutes. We're meeting him in front of the building in ten.” Nat stuck her head out of the bathroom. “Clint! Get _up_!”

With a groan, he flipped his legs over the side of the bed and rolled to sitting. “I’m up. I’m up.” _I’m so_ up _it hurts,_ he didn’t add aloud. 

“There’s no _time_ for that, Clint.” A pair of pants thumped into the back of his head. “Just get dressed so we can go.”

Sighing, he scrubbed his hand over his face and rose to pull on the jeans, wincing as he buttoned the fly. He stepped into his boots and grabbed a shirt he hoped wasn’t _too_ dirty to yank over his head.   
___

 

Malene Beck, an agent with a subsidiary branch of Dutch Intelligence, was annoyed with her new assignment right up to the moment she found out who she would be working with. On hearing the name “Phil Coulson,” she lost not only her irritation, but found herself eagerly awaiting the chance to operate alongside the man again. They’d worked well together, back when AIVD had first added her team (at the time, just five agents and a secretary) and SHIELD had come to help them get off the ground and help them figure out how to operate within (or, as Phil had taught her, _around_ ) the constraints of the WSC.

Six days before the mission was to start, Malene received an oddly cryptic message from the usually loquacious Jasper Sitwell informing her that a weird paperwork error had given Phil a real bride and she was only needed as a contact and backup. And, well, wasn’t _that_ The Gossip of a lifetime. Malene wasn’t sure if she was a spy because she was nosy or if she’d become nosy because she was a spy. Either way, this was going to be _fun_.

That was the last she'd heard until the night Jas called to arrange a meeting between her and Phil. He’d flatly refused to give any other details regarding this mysterious bride-to-be, and Malene was anxious to press Phil to find out what was wrong with one of their mutually oldest friends: Jasper _always_ talked. 

Rijksmuseum was always an excellent place for a covert get-together. It was easy enough to wander through pretending to be attached to one of the larger groups, or playing just another tourist, stopping to gaze at individual favorite pieces. The latter had been Phil’s approach, and Malene found him standing, frozen and miles away, in front of a Vermeer. She edged toward him, also studying the distinctive sense of “other” that Vermeer always gave her. It was probably unpatriotic to dislike his works, but she found them off-putting, felt they were almost… unfinished. They made her cold around the edges, and she took an instinctive step closer to Phil, their shoulders brushing together. 

“Excuse me.” She tipped her head to look at him, a playful smile touching the edge of her lips. Phil jumped, snapped instantly out of his daze, and then relaxed as his face opened into recognition. “So Jasper tells me there was a paperwork error that left you in a rather embarrassing situation.” Her smile had turned into an impish grin. “How are you doing, Phil?”

“Malene Beck!” Phil smiled at her, holding out his hand. “I didn’t know you were involved in this mess. Good to see you.”

During the evenings while on that first joint mission, Phil's team and hers had gone out together for beer, laughter, and far too many of the dangerous pranks of a dozen baby spies vying for position and recognition at the beginning of their careers. Malene and Jasper had become inseparable over the course of those three weeks. With their matching senses of humor and meddling tendencies, Malene and Jas had quickly become known as jokers and terrors to every member of SHIELD as well as their Dutch counterparts. She was the one who had suggested putting Phil on the boat tour for honeymooners that had included far too much alcohol. Having no one to speak with-- everyone else being cozily paired off-- Phil had availed himself of the booze. He came out of it having lost quite a lot; he’d lost his necktie, his brain had lost several hours, and his liver had certainly lost five years of usefulness that day. 

Jasper was solely responsible for the second part of the plan, which had involved collecting Phil from the end of the tour and pouring him into a bed that was not his own. The morning had found him waking, hung-over and mostly naked, spooning with an agent he'd only been introduced to a couple of weeks before. It had been such a remarkably _narrow_ bed, though. Fitting two adults on it had necessitated choosing a willing participant with no issues regarding personal space. It'd been nearly a decade, though, and certainly Agent Melinda May had forgiven them for Phil throwing up on her after he'd sat up too quickly, hitting his head on the top bunk. According to Jas, she was now extremely careful to keep a larger bubble between herself and other people. Oddly, Phil didn't seem to count as "other people."

For Jasper and Malene, that episode had been the start of a beautiful friendship that had spanned more than a decade, several missions together, and countless phone calls and emails at weird hours. Jas kept her up-to-date on the SHIELD gossip, and she returned the favor about their mutual AIVD acquaintances. Malene had been the second person Jasper had texted when it became clear that Phil was stuck with a _real_ mail order bride. Malene had called him later to soundly curse the lack of training that went into the paper pushers in any covert organization, and Jasper had indignantly agreed with her.

"Good to see you again, too.” She flipped her dark hair back over her shoulder and grinned over at him. “I was looking forward to being your partner on this mission, but there was a mix-up? So hard to find good clerical help in covert ops.”

“Jasper didn’t lie, but it appears he omitted the details.” Phil stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket and hunched his shoulders. “The mistake was all his. Don’t know how he managed it, but… Just changed the parameters a bit. Nothing I can’t work around.”

“Let’s walk around a bit, two old friends renewing their acquaintance, and then we’ll leave as if for lunch. It’ll look less suspicious.” She turned toward the next gallery, and Phil fell into step beside her. “For now, you must tell me about this bride you have. I want all the details!”

“First off,” Phil began, pausing to admire another small painting. “First off, it’s a groom, not a bride. And he’s gorgeous.”

“Oh! I didn’t realize you… Oh!” Malene nervously twisted her fingers in the bottom edge of her suit jacket. It was impolite to pry. But... “Is that why there is no Mrs. Coulson?”

“It would be Mrs. Marcus,” Phil corrected, the corner of his mouth ticking up in his trademark little half-smile. “For this mission, at least. But no, that’s… there just hasn’t ever been time, really.”

“Ah, the job.” She shook her head; her own love life knew the truth of his words. “It does take up so much. But now you have met someone. Tell me about him.”

“His name is Anton.” Phil flushed as he started talking. “He’s 27, Russian. Used to be a circus performer. Moves like an acrobat. He took me dancing night before last, and every movement was just…” He’d gone completely red in the face, looking both alarmed with himself and slightly panicky. “And he’s nice. Playful. Funny. A flirt.”

He bit his lips and turned away, and Malene wondered what Phil _wasn’t_ saying. Obviously, he had been strongly affected by this pretty Russian boy, and Malene didn’t think Phil was the kind to take advantage of someone else’s misfortunes. Surely Jasper wouldn’t be so close to him if he was that much of a scoundrel. 

“How is he in bed?” Blunt often worked best in interrogations. 

“I wouldn’t know!” Phil drew his shoulders up, suddenly prickly and offended. “I wouldn’t… I didn’t… I couldn’t do that to him.”

Phil Coulson was stammering. And blushing again.

“So it’s worked out, then?” This was the stuff of legends or books, but never real life. Malene was hit by a twinge of wistfulness, a tug that wasn’t quite jealousy. “Somehow, out of one weird screw up, you’ve finally found him.”

“I… What? No!” Phil’s eyes went wide, slightly desperate. “No, it’s not like that. He’s so young that… I can’t really… Even if I thought... My papers won’t actually let me…”

More stammering. Did Phil know yet how hopelessly he was smitten?

“Pah! Papers I can manage. Just ask, Phil, and I will deal with it.” She laughed softly. “And now we need to start walking again, because we’re attracting attention just standing here staring at each other.”

Phil nodded dumbly and followed her through the twisting galleries, back toward the entrance. The car she’d texted for was waiting for them, and she squeezed his arm as they crawled into the back.

"Sometimes, good things just happen." She smiled, raising a hand to interrupt as he took a breath to answer her. "Maybe it's time you took a souvenir home."

“No.” Phil’s voice was soft, thick with a gentle sort of sadness. “Anton’s looking for a safe harbor, and that’s one thing I _can’t_ ever be.” He stared out the window for a full minute before speaking again, still looking away from her, voice barely loud enough to hear over the engine.

“Especially when he learns that Phillip Marcus is a lie.”

____

"Remember, you're just supposed to be the hired muscle. And you don’t speak English." Nat crossed her arms, high heel-clad foot tapping in a show of impatience. The heavily painted makeup gave her the appearance of trying to disguise her features, and the simple black dress she wore was a touch too tight. She wore her hair flawlessly coiffed beneath a wide-brimmed, black, straw hat, and Clint only held in his laughter at the excess of Spy Look through long years of practice. "A Mister Smith-- which can't be his real name-- is expecting to meet the Black Widow today. We'll discuss the possibility of my purchasing the plans for an unnamed client. With any luck, we'll get a better handle on just who has them right now."

"And the chances of actually being in the same location as the plans?" Clint watched the sleek, silver car pull smoothly up to the curb. 

"Slim to none, I’m afraid." Natasha gestured to the car door with one elegant hand. "Let us move along, shall we, Boris?"

“Let’s get Moose and Squirrel.” Her lips twitched in reply and Clint considered that as good as a laugh.

Clint pulled open the door, offered her a hand in, and then plopped himself down beside her, crossing his arms over his chest and letting his natural resting-faced scowl drop onto his face. There was already a man in the car, in the reverse-facing seat, impeccably cut suit not quite able to disguise the weak line of his stooping shoulders. His face was long, underfed or sickly, and weak-chinned. His eyes widened under Clint’s scrutiny, clearly uncomfortable with the apparent hostility of Clint’s glare. The man cleared his throat and turned to Nat.

“Your… bodyguard?” he asked in English, voice a reedy tenor, accent distinctly upper North American. Michigan? Wisconsin? Possibly the southern edges of Canada.

“Hired help,” Natasha answered, bored, dismissive, and very, very Russian. Even though he was expecting it, Clint had to lock his jaw to keep from snorting at the comically over-the-top accent. “Pay him no mind. He speaks no English, which is sometimes inconvenient when I need to be American or English, but is very convenient when I wish to discuss business.”

“You don’t trust him, then?” Slope-shouldered, Gaunt-faced Man eyed Clint warily. 

“Do not be ridiculous.” Nat’s voice became, impossibly, even more disinterested. “I have no trust for anyone. Is how I have stayed alive so long in this man’s game we play.” She shrugged one slender shoulder. “I have learned to pay for loyalty and never depend upon it.”

She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one without asking permission. Cigarettes were one of her favorite distractions, in spite of the fact that she despised the way they tasted and, even more, the way they made her hair smell. She simply appreciated having a hot ember in her hand, and the way elegant gestures with the glowing tip distracted attention away from her face.

“Speak to me of these plans, Mister Smith.” She flicked ashes onto the floor of the car, and Clint deepened his scowl to keep from outright laughing at the abject horror on Mr. Smith’s face at the casual disregard for the immaculate interior of his fancy-pants limo. “Do you have them in your possession at this time?”

Mr. Smith dragged his eyes back to Nat’s face, and she took a deep drag on her smoke, cool grey eyes never leaving his alarmed brown ones. Her cheeks hollowed, making the perfection of her cheekbones sharper, and her lips, plump under their careful reshaping with scarlet lipstick, pursed in a parody of a kiss. Mr. Smith’s lips parted slightly, eyes starting to bug. Nat timed the release of her cloud of smoke for precisely the moment he’d begun to inhale, enveloping his face in the acrid sting. Clint shifted to the opposite seat to pat the man’s back as he coughed and choked, eyes watering freely but still fixed on Nat’s Cheshire Cat smile. 

___

“So I’ll keep our agents' ears open for whispers, rumors, or outright facts. You should check in with the designer and see if they won’t tell _you_ who it is they hired to protect the plans and then bring them back.” Malene shook her head, stepping onto the street as Phil held the door of the restaurant for her. “Why they kept that piece of information from SHIELD, I just…”

Phil took a deep breath that flared his nostrils and swelled his chest. “There’s no clear indication that their private security is still on the job. Maybe they were fired when we were contacted. Maybe…”

“Maybe they were actually the thieves in the first place,” Malene finished his thought with a sharp look. 

“If we could just find out _who_...” Phil slipped his sunglasses out of his pocket and onto his nose. “One more avenue of inquiry.” He didn’t allow himself the rebellious growl that wanted to add “One more thing to interrupt time I could be spending with Anton.”

Malene smiled sharply up at him as he handed her into the back of the waiting car, clearly reading the thought Phil didn’t voice. “I’ll see what I can do on my end. Don’t get so caught up in work that you forget to have a little _fun_ while you’re here.”

“God, I feel like such a dirty old man.” Phil smiled ruefully.

“You’re not old yet, if you can still feel dirty, my friend.” And she closed the door before he could get out another word.

Phil decided to walk back to his hotel, allowing the late afternoon sun and to clear his head. He was only a couple of blocks out when his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to see a security code instead of an incoming number. Frowning, his thumb swiped across the screen to accept the call.

“Coulson.”

A tinny voice came over the line. “Rerouting a call from SHIELD’s switchboards. Local to Amsterdam. Identifies as Waarzegster.”

Phil rattled off his own security clearance code and waited for the telltale pattern of clicks that let him know the line was connected.

“Agent…?” Waarzegster’s smooth contralto voice was questioning, searching for his name.

“Just ‘Agent’ will do,” Phil deflected smoothly. “You have new information?”

“You have been identified by an operative employed by the organization known as AIM.” Waarzegster cleared their throat. “We consider it a professional courtesy to give you this information, and do not require additional payment at this time.”

Phil glanced around carefully, giving a cursory examination to the other pedestrians along the road. Too many, but no one he could immediately identify. He swallowed down the nerves brought on by the hit of adrenaline and instantly began making plans with contingency plans.

“I’ll be leaving the city for a few days.” His tongue wetted his bottom lip as he considered just how much information to share.. “In the meantime, I have heard that there was someone else in the game, hired by Brown and Richolt to protect the plans. A team, most likely. Private security, or maybe mercs. Can you get me a name, find out if they're still involved or when they stopped playing?”

“By Wednesday,” Waarzegster promised. “And you should probably hurry along, Agent Coulson. We would not like to lose one of our best-tipping clients.”

The line disconnected and Phil swore under his breath, resisting the urge to run to his hotel to grab a weekend bag and his laptop. He reached up to ruffle his hair and shoved one hand deep into the pocket of his leather jacket to keep from going for the gun holstered on his ankle. He woke his phone and pretended to be engrossed in the map on the screen as he walked, keeping his pace deliberately calm, trying to project Quiet, Unassuming Tourist Who Blends In With The Crowd.

_How does the Fortune Teller know my name? And, more pressing, who have they sold the information to?_

___

“Soooo…” Clint dragged the syllable out, lounging against the wall in feigned disinterest as he carefully studied the office building across the street through his mirrored sunglasses. “We’re just gonna stroll in there and say what? ‘Excuse me, do you know where we might pick up some plans which you so rudely stole from us a damned _year_ ago?’”

Nat raised one eyebrow at him. “How did you get anywhere before I came along?”

“A charming smile and an ass you could bounce a quarter off?” He slid his glasses down his nose to let his eyes twinkle at her over the top. 

She laughed, a rich rumble of sound that Clint didn’t hear nearly enough. She’d changed into a pair of loose, comfortable cargo pants and a t-shirt, washed the war paint off her face, brushed down her hair, and thrown on one of Clint’s old hoodies. Dressed like this, body loose with the anticipation of _doing something_ , she was altogether the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She raised a questioning eyebrow at his continued staring, and he reached out to pull at a lock of her hair.

“You’re just pretty like this.” He grinned. “It’s nice to see you smile again.”

“Маленький брат, I do love you.” She reached up, her fingers brushing across his cheekbone. “Let’s go see what there is to see regarding their security and make a few plans of our own.”

“Still older than you,” Clint muttered as he followed her around the corner to find a quiet place to hack into their target building’s security. He was carrying a backpack with all his surveillance gear, a change of pants, and a few other odds and ends.

“But I’ve been doing this longer.”

He couldn’t argue with that, so he snapped his mouth shut and pulled out the microcomputer Nat had gotten from some tech geek whose company she’d infiltrated. He hated using the thing; its keys were not made for fingers the size, shape, and strength of his. But it was a damned nice piece of equipment, and it only took a few moments of swearing under his breath in a variety of languages before he finally hacked into the cameras in the hallways of the building they were tucked behind. 

“Five?” Clint’s eyebrows shot up his head in surprise. “Get this, Nat. They have five cameras. A whole five. Building that size. Wonder how much corporate espionage others have gotten away with. A seven year old on a sugar rush could sneak through there.”

“I hope they have enough of the building covered for us to find out where the meeting is happening, at least.” Nat gave a snort of professional disdain. “Do your best. Worst case scenario, we just wander in and take a look.”

In the end, they did manage to track a group heading into a conference room. More than half the men were dressed in the ill-fitting suits that seemed to be the standard uniform of muscle-for-hire the world over. Shaking her head at the poor sartorial choices of goons and muttering triumphantly about her ability to dress her own “hired security,” Nat jimmied the lock on the fire exit. Clint looped the cameras down two halls long enough to get past them, and then seamlessly switched them back to their regular feed. He preened lightly under Nat's admiring gaze, and then jammed the door behind them as they entered an empty office next to the occupied conference room.

"I do love when they plan these little illicit meetings after usual business hours." Clint untangled a handful of wires from his backpack as he whispered. "So much more finesse to this than having to do the bugged floral delivery schtick. Or, worse, strip-o-grams."

“I don’t know. You do a fabulous strip tease. And you do find such creative ways to hide the cameras.” Nat chuckled softly and scratched gently at Clint's scalp. If he’d had a tail, he swore it would be wagging. "They appear to be waiting for more to show, so I guess we have some time to kill." 

She sank onto the desk chair and began rifling through drawers as a way to keep herself busy. Clint finished adhering the recording equipment to the wall between himself and the meeting in the next room and then rested his back below the wires, stretched his legs along the floor, and closed his eyes to drift for a bit.

This was the part of any job that he hated the most. Second most, but only because getting shot sucked for _longer_. The tedium of spying and waiting was excruciating. Clint wasn't built for boredom, so he'd learned long before to find something worth focusing on and thinking of it long and carefully.

He wished he was at dinner with Phillip. No matter how still he had to be, watching Phillip, listening to him, was never boring. The play of expression over those gorgeous blue eyes with their fascinating flecks of brown, the series of smiles and near smiles and half smiles, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, they were all enthralling, enticing. Clint was quite certain that he would be able to watch Phillip do nothing but sit and stare out a window and still be enchanted. 

_I’m so very, very fucked._

Clint bit back a groan and resisted the urge to thump his head against the wall. He sank further into his own mind, trying not to get too caught up in how Phillip smelled, how he tasted. Speaking of how Phillip smelled, Clint heaved a sigh as he realized the shirt he’d grabbed that morning was the slinky silk t-shirt he’d worn on their first date and that it still held traces of Phillip’s cologne. 

Waiting was quickly going from tedious to downright torturous. 

___

Phil glanced around his room one last time, making certain he wasn’t leaving anything incriminating behind. His work suits were staying with his laundry, and there wasn’t time to worry about dropping it all off to be cleaned now. He grabbed his last suit to wear for just-in-case meetings, a single pair of jeans, and one pair of slacks with their accompanying button-up. His usual work shoes would suffice, since they were comfortable for running in and each had a tracker embedded in the sole, plus they were plain enough not to stand out too badly, even with his jeans. Laptop went in his weekend bag, phone in his pocket, and he hadn’t brought any physical files with him: wouldn’t do to have a possible civilian visitor in a room full of secret documents.

Turning quickly away from _that_ thought as he knew there wasn’t time to deal with thoughts of Anton in his room, Phil snagged his leather jacket off the back of the chair, tossed it over his rumpled t-shirt, and ducked into the bathroom for his shaving kit. Time to get out of Amsterdam and find a Someplace Else to be for the weekend.

Thirty minutes later, ticket purchased, Phil pulled his phone out and dialed Anton’s number. It rang twice before shifting to voicemail. Phil took a steadying breath.

“This is Phillip.” He cleared his throat. “Train leaves in… fifteen minutes. I’m gonna run down to Rotterdam this weekend, but I’ll be back in time for our date on Monday. I… if you… Call me if you find time that you’re not busy? It would be good to hear your voice.”

Phil felt himself blushing _again_ as he disconnected the call.

___

“Sounds like the party is getting started.” Nat’s gentle kick to Clint’s ankle startled him out of a pleasant daydream involving Phillip and that t-shirt he’d been wearing at breakfast the day before. And those glasses. Those had driven Clint wild, magnifying Phillip’s eyes until Clint could have gotten lost chasing each colored facet…

“Clint!” Her hiss was edged with both frustration and humor. “If you keep drifting away like that, I’m going to make you leave. I need you to focus!”

“I _would_ leaf,” Clint told her with a smirk, “if I could just ficus”

Natasha flicked him on the nose with a hard glare, muttering under her breath about the impossibility of finding good partners.

“Pay attention,” Nat whispered. “And I _swear_ on your bow, I will kill you if you make one more agonizing joke before we are out of this building.”

Clint rolled to his knees and adjusted the headset from his computer before handing the second headset to Natasha. The greetings exchanged in the room next door were French, and Clint rolled his eyes. He’d be missing a lot of this conversation until he had a chance to go over it again; even with the technology that let the headphones work with his hearing aids, French was remarkably frustrating for him when he couldn’t lipread to go with it. Nat gave him a sympathetic glance and returned her attention to the beginning of the meeting. Clint shifted restlessly, trying his best to pay attention.

His back pocket began to buzz in the second before his phone began to sing out its absurdly perky ringtone, volume at max levels. Nat’s head swiveled to him, eyes wide and face pale. Clint scrambled to his feet, reaching his hand in the pocket to silence the phone and then he began yanking the computer free from the wires and snagging his bag off the floor as the voices in the next room cut off sharply into shocked silence. There were shouts and bangs, and then Nat had the door of the office cracked open and her hand held out to Clint. He yanked a flashbang grenade out of the bag as he shoved the computer in. Nat armed it and hurled it into the hall, turning to press her face into Clint’s chest as his broad shoulder braced the door closed. Her hands clapped over his ears to protect his tech, and he wrapped one large bicep around the side of her head not muffled by a pectoral muscle.

They were out the door, racing down the hall a second ahead of the momentarily dazed hired muscle of the men from the next room. Nat’s arm was thrown up alongside her face, protecting her both from the smoke and, hopefully, from being recognized, and Clint hurried to follow her example. As they neared the corner at the end of the hall, he glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of a familiar face looking back at him.

Waarzegster stepped aside in the hall to let the goons run past them and then shook their head, an exasperated sort of smile growing on their lips. Clint tossed them a half-hearted salute and a smirk, and then tossed a second flashbang over his shoulder as he skidded around the corner, following Nat toward a stairwell and the exit.

Outside the building, Nat caught Clint’s hand and dragged him down the street, dodging through a courtyard that cut through the center of a block of buildings and then turning sharply to duck down a narrow street lined with cars. Clint could hear her talking, but the air whistling past, combined with leftovers from the two explosions he’d just been much too close to, _and_ with Nat having her back toward him, he had no idea what she was saying. 

“What?!” he demanded in frustration, and Nat, worthy of all love and adoration, fell back on ASL and raised both hands over her head, crossing the first two fingers of each hand in an X, right-hand fingers moving along the tops of those of her left.

_Train_

“Go go go,” Clint chanted at her, sucking in air for another burst of speed. “Choo choo, motherfuckers.” 

They would board the first train through after they had skidded into the station, damn the destination. Clint ignored everyone and everything around him, too busy beating himself up for being their security risk. He let Natasha guide him to where he needed to be, only really looking up when he was on the carriage to destination unknown.

“Where we going?” he asked, dropping into a seat and breathing deeply to catch his breath.

“Rotterdam.” Nat flipped her hair out of her face as she slipped past him to sit by the window. “I don’t think I know a soul in Rotterdam, so we can just _relax_ for a couple of days. I’ll call Zeg tomorrow and make sure they have our asses covered in Amsterdam before we go back for your lover boy.”

“He’s not my…” Clint cut himself off with a huff, staring out the window past Nat’s fiery mane as the train pulled out, taking them away. Away from Amsterdam. Away from the man he was quickly falling for. He tried not to long too much to leap off and go find Phillip. “I forgot you’d turned the ringer up when you went out yesterday, Nat. I’m sorry I…”

“You’ve had a lot on your mind, брат,” she answered gently, curling her fingers over his and squeezing gently. “This is not a problem. I just want us both away until we make certain our faces haven’t been identified.”

Clint nodded, slouching in his seat to rest for the hour-long ride. He focused on nothing but his breathing, chest swelling and sinking, counting until numbers slipped away and he wasn’t thinking at all.

“So who called, and did they leave a message?” Nat’s nudge woke him from a near doze, and Clint shuffled until he could free the phone from his pants.

“It’s Phillip,” he said, checking his missed calls. He tried to keep his voice casual, but could tell by Nat’s raised eyebrow that he hadn’t managed. “And yes, there’s a message.” 

He stood, walking away to listen, freezing midstep, feeling his face go pale as he pressed a button to play the message again. He spun back to his seat, stumbling in his hurry to sit back down, clutching at Nat’s arm.

“Clint?” Her voice was worried, urgent. “What’s wrong?”

“Nat,” Clint barely recognized the rasp of his own voice. “Phillip… he’s… he’s going to be in Rotterdam this weekend, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Week: Weekends in Rotterdam; Tourism websites as fortune telling devices (or so he wishes); and the dangers of leaving your laundry to the last minute
> 
> Your wonderful comments, the kudos, the people who have come back to Tumblr to play with me, the subscribers this thing has gotten... I just... WOW! I can't believe all of you! You're amazing, and you make ME feel amazing. Thank you thank you thank you thank you!
> 
> Be sure and leave some love for my betas, who cheer me on, make me not sound ridiculous, and keep me laughing and happy while I work, [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar) and [Selana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selana/pseuds/Selana).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I wish you were with me. In this city. In this room. In this bed._

Phil sat upright in bed, instantly awake, his first morning in Rotterdam. It took a moment for his pulse to slow to normal and the first rush of adrenaline to ebb. Pulling his knees up, he propped his elbows against them and rubbed his hands over his face, fingers catching in the tangled mess of his hair that evidenced his restless night. He’d called Jasper to do an electronic security sweep as soon as he’d checked into his luxury hotel room, and no immediate threats had been found. There was no buzz about “Agent Coulson,” and no _new_ word on the happenings in Amsterdam. Still and all though, Waarzegster’s warning the day before made for a critical lack of rest while on a mission. Being made sucked.

Releasing his grip on his eyebrows, Phil fumbled around the bed until he found his phone, lighting up the screen to check the time. Earlier than he wanted to be awake, too late to excuse going back to sleep. International travel always played hell with his internal clock, in spite of years of teaching himself to sleep whenever he was lying down, _wherever_ he was lying down, and to be fully awake as soon as he was upright. 

Coffee. Coffee was first on the agenda, and then he’d have to figure out how to balance looking like an ordinary vacationer while still finding time to do some data analysis and see if Jasper had forwarded him any actionable information.

He dropped his phone back to the mattress, gathering himself to climb off the bed and get his day started. The unexpected vibration of an incoming call stopped him, and he slid his finger across the screen, neck and shoulders relaxing when he saw Anton's name.

"Remind me to take a picture next time we're together," he said in Russian in lieu of a greeting as he answered the phone.

"Okay, but... why?" Anton replied after a beat of surprise. 

"To set in my phone. So it comes up when you call." Phil let himself drop back against the pillows, groaning as he stretched. There was a deep inhale over the line.

"I woke you." Anton's voice was small and contrite.

"No." The blankets were caught around Phil's foot, and he kicked himself free. "I woke up about ten minutes ago. Hadn't gotten up yet, though."

There was another slightly too-long silence, and Phil pressed the phone closer to his face, listening to Anton's steady breathing. 

"Anton?" 

"I was just... just picturing that." Phil couldn't be imagining the roughness that crept into Anton's voice, could he? “That’s… it is a good thought.”

Phil had no idea how to answer that, so he didn’t say anything for a minute before turning the conversation back to Anton by asking how the performance had gone the night before. 

“It was a very loud show,” Anton answered, and Phil thought he could hear a grin muddling the words. “With a bit of difficulty right at the end. But Natalya and I are good at changing plans.” A woman’s voice spoke in the background, too low for Phil to make out the words.

“My sister is back.” The woman’s voice came again, a bit louder this time, lilting with amusement. “She went for a run this morning, and now she thinks I should go have breakfast with her. I have decided to pretend I am deaf.” Phil pictured the tiny hearing aid he’d seen before, and the alpha male in him rumbled. “But only for her. You I can hear. What are you doing in Rotterdam?”

“Just hadn’t been here in about a decade, and thought I should see what’s changed.” He didn’t add that the last time he’d been there, Phil had been drugged by an informant who’d actually been working for someone else all along. Being left to wander the streets singing show tunes was actually better than what _could_ have happened to Phil, granted. But the time before that-- Well, Phil’s left hip still ached in rainy weather sometimes. “Since you were busy, and I was so close. Had some _memorable_ times here. Wish…” He stopped, refusing to say the thought that had nearly tumbled from his lips. _I wish you were with me. In this city. In this room. In this bed._

“My sister is getting rather shrill.” Phil laughed as Anton’s voice went muffled, clearly having pulled a pillow over his head. “I suppose I should accept that it is inevitable and get dressed to go eat. I will call you later, or you will find something that is interesting and call me?”

“Talk to you soon.” Phil pressed the phone just a bit harder to his cheek for one moment before hanging up, feeling ridiculous but unable to resist. He really had to get himself under control. This was a mission, Anton was a cover, and Phil could not afford to get attached.

_____

Nat took the phone out of Clint’s hand as he disconnected the call, still grinning at the echo of Phillip’s warm chuckle as he’d said his goodbyes. 

“Clint.” Nat sat on the edge of his bed, cupping his chin in one hand. “Clint, we need to talk about this.”

“Wha’s there to talk about?” He pulled his face away and threw himself back on the bed, stretching from his toes to his fingers. “I like him, okay? He’s… nice.”

“Clinton Francis Barton.” Her use of his entire name sent ice through his veins. “You have known him not even four days. You know nothing about him except that he is here to pick out a man. As if he had gone shopping for one. Just pick the age, the weight, the size. And you are acting like you’ve been bought and paid for already.”

“Nat,” he said, sitting up and reaching for her hand. He wasn’t sure if he was reassuring her or himself, but he felt like he needed to offer someone some comfort. “Natasha, it’s okay. I’m okay. He’s the guy who’s going to get us outta here, and then he’ll be the guy I’m gonna think of on rainy afternoons, wondering where he ended up and if he ever got the nice little Russian boy of his dreams. And it will all be okay.”

“You’re a fool, brother-mine,” Nat said fondly, and she leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of his eye. “Now put on some pants and let’s go find some breakfast.”

_____

Phil booted up his computer once he had a cup of coffee in his hands, pulling up the Rotterdam visitors' website to try to find some way to keep himself busy until he got the all-clear to return to Amsterdam. He scrolled through the inevitable list of museums not particularly in the mood for art, shivered at the thought of shopping, and then gave up, clicking the “about Rotterdam” tag. He swiped his finger over the mousepad, barely skimming as he trailed down the page, and then stopped short, blinking. The website appeared to be reading his mind. Well, his libido, at least. 

Right beside a box labeled “First time in Rotterdam” was another link titled “Gay Friendly Rotterdam.” He could certainly think of one gay-friendly first time he'd like to be in Rotterdam...

Phil hovered over the link for a moment before sighing heavily, closing the tab, and shutting down the computer. Maybe he would be best served by taking a walk and trying not to think too hard about the reason for his discontent. Maybe, if he pretended he wasn’t missing someone he’d only known four days, he would stop feeling and acting like a junior high school girl with a crush. 

Or, oh, better idea.

He would call Maria, wake her up at whatever ridiculous hour it was in New York, and bitch about Jasper’s failures as a paperwork administrator until he felt better about himself. Besides, he really should check in, just to touch base and update her on the mission. And it had been three days since they’d spoken, which was two days longer than normal.

Half an hour later, he’d poured out all the details, including most of those he’d kept from Malene and a few he’d tried to keep from himself.

"Seriously, Phil," Maria's voice was muffled around her bite of of bagel. Who had emergency bagels on hand for three a.m. phone calls? “I don’t know why you’re so down on Jas right now. Sounds like he did you one helluva favor.”

He grunted in response and took an obnoxiously loud slurp of his coffee.

“So are you going to go for it?” She made sure to audibly gulp before speaking, knowing Phil’s hangup about people speaking with their mouth full; she also knew that he was aware of her problems with the choking, liquid sounds of someone sucking at a drink or soup. 

“Go for wha…?” Phil felt his spine stiffen and his cheeks heat as he realized what she was asking. “No! Don’t even… I wouldn’t take… _No!_ ”

“What I hear you saying is ‘I want to jump his bones, but I can’t get the stick out of my ass to facilitate such a thing.’”

“Dammit, Mars.” Phil dragged a palm down his face. “I… It’s not about what I _want_ or _don’t_ want. Because I would have to be blind-- or dead-- not to want him. Anton’s gorgeous. He’s smart, funny, charming, kind…”

“Not helping your case here, old man,” she murmured. Phil sighed heavily.

"Exactly."

"'Exactly' what, Phil?" Phil had always thought she was the smartest of their superspy triad, but her genuine refusal to get this was starting to make him wonder.

“I can’t, Maria.” His throat was far too dry, so he took another swallow of coffee. “It’d be taking advantage of the situation _and_ of Anton. He doesn’t deserve that. He… he doesn’t deserve to be jerked around like this, but I _need_ to keep seeing him until that reception. But he's so young, beautiful, bright. And I'm just... After this is over, I will wish him all the best. I hope he finds what he's looking for.”

There was a long silence from the phone, and Phil pulled it away from his face to check the connection.

“Phillip.” Her too-gentle voice had him clapping the screen back to his face. “Did you ever consider that maybe he has?”

He choked on his next swallow of coffee, and Maria snorted at him. 

"Seriously, Phil," Maria said, humor tickling across the line, over the ocean; Phil had one deep pang of loneliness for his two usual constant companions. "Don't get so caught up in what you can't do that you forget what you're supposed to be doing."

"At the moment, what I’m _supposed_ to be doing consists primarily of being bored witless and trying not to get songs from The Man of La Mancha stuck in my head. Just in case." He started his goodbyes over her peals of laughter.

“Just…” Maria managed to get her hysteria under control. “Just think about it. When this mission is over, you could try coming clean and seeing what he says, huh?”

Phil heaved another sigh and hung up without replying.

He spent the rest of that day, as well as the next, trying very hard not to consider her words. Anton called him twice, and Phil struggled not to call Anton as he wandered around the city, admiring the architecture and taking photos like it was a real vacation. He failed utterly, dialing Anton’s number four times over the two days. Phil was clearly developing an absurd addiction to the enthusiastic joy with which Anton always greeted his calls and the interest Anton showed in knowing every detail of where Phil was and where he was going next.

What good could it possibly do to tell the truth? _I’m sorry, Anton. I’ve just wasted a month of your life while your residency papers are running out. I know I’m not who I said I was and that nearly every word out of my mouth was a lie, but you wanna come home with me anyway?_ It would contradict everything Phil had said about wanting to avoid coercion. And it would certainly quench the admiring glow that had lit Anton’s eyes when they’d said goodnight with soft kisses and gentle hands hands after their last dinner together.

Phil walked for miles, trying to keep his body busy, since his mind seemed stuck in a circular track that was as frustrating as it was unproductive. Maybe, if he could just cave and show Anton he wasn’t quite as… _special_ as Anton thought him… Maybe if he could just somehow work Anton _through_ his system, since keeping him out was failing spectacularly. Phil picked up the pace, walking a little harder.

By Sunday night, Phil was rather exhausted, terribly lonely, and thoroughly sick of being stuck on the sidelines of his own mission; Malene had taken over the active search for the weapons plans in Amsterdam. Jasper and Maria were monitoring every digital message they could intercept. SHIELD seemed very far away, leaving Phil feeling small and unimportant. Clearly it was time to check in and see if he could get back in the game. He plugged in his phone, dragging a chair close to the wall to accommodate the short cord and dialed the number that Jasper had given him three days before.

“Waarzegster here, Agent Coulson.” Amusement dripped through Zeg’s tone. “We told you it would be Wednesday before we had information for you, yes?”

“Yes.” Phil pinched the bridge of his nose to keep his voice level. “But a status update would not go amiss.”

“Of course it wouldn’t.” Condescension dripped from every syllable. “We’re afraid all we can tell you is that someone is dropping rather a _lot_ of money for your current location. Well, a lot of verbal money, which doesn’t spend so well, especially as they seen to be trying to hide their affiliation. Without a clear line on the buyer of information, they will find it hard to get anyone interested in selling to them. All local talk is about the _plans_ and who will be purchasing them. No one has time or inclination to look for one little pawn on the mighty, mighty chessboard.”

“Of course they don’t.” Phil could play condescending, too. “So what is the right price for you to sell me out?”

“They don’t have it, Agent.” There was a thoughtful pause. “When all of this, our current setup, goes to hell-- and it _will_ eventually-- we could use the good graces of SHIELD to help us relocate.”

“We’re not paying for your moving van, Waarzegster.” 

“We wouldn’t _dream_ of asking for such a thing.” Zeg gave a throaty chuckle. “A few introductions in the right quarter would not go amiss, however. We’re thinking somewhere warm and inclined to turn a blind eye, so long as we stay out of the way… Maybe South America.”

“Bottom line it,” Phil snapped. “What exactly will your silence cost us?”

“For the moment, nothing but our standard fees as previously agreed-upon and your good will.” Zeg went back to their slightly mocking tone. “Stay put, Agent Coulson. Enjoy your little vacation, and you’ll hear from us on _Wednesday_.”

Phil disconnected before Waarzegster could hang up on him. It was a hollow victory, but one to be savored, nonetheless. 

_Two more boring days to get through. What’ll I tell Anton?_

____

Sunday night found Clint and Natasha having a screaming fight their hotel room. Well, it was more of a _silent_ fight, as it was being conducted in ASL to avoid being overheard and to avoid being thrown out of said hotel room. But Clint’s gestures had gotten larger and stiffer as they argued, and Nat’s hands and wrists were tight, anger dripping from her fingertips and hard eyes.

“I just don’t like spying on him, Nat.” His fingers snapped through spelling her name rather than using his pet sign for her (a variation on “spider”). “Every time he calls me, I start pushing for information about where he is, where he’s going, what he’s doing. I feel like some sort of overbearing boyfriend!”

“Think how much worse he’d think of you if he saw either of us on the streets, brother.” Her shoulders tensed further. “You need to know his location, and there is no other way to get it. Besides, I’m sure he doesn’t notice over the clear puppy eyes you make every time you see his name on your phone and the shameless flirting.”

Clint felt himself blushing, and he bit the inside of his cheek to try to make it stop. 

“I like talking to him! I like _him_. Is that so awful?”

“You’ve spoken to him _six times_ in two days.” She rolled her eyes. “And he’s called you twice as much as you’ve called him. If anyone is being overbearing here, it’s not you!”

“I _asked_ him to call me. I asked him to call me _often_ , because I wanted to talk to him.” He scowled. “You won’t even leave me alone to rub one out, so his voice is the only stimulation I’m getting right now.”

“You’re in too deep.” She looked away from him, face blank, aloof. “Get your penis under control, or I will do it for you.”

“Fuck you.” He knew she saw the gesture, even though she still wasn't looking at him. “I’m a big boy now, and I’m doing this for _you_. Only a few more weeks and it won’t matter anymore. So just get off my ass and let me have something nice this time, just for a little while.”

Nat sagged suddenly, turning frightened eyes back to Clint’s face.

“Oh, darling,” she said aloud, reaching toward his arm. “You don’t… I didn’t…”

“I can’t just sit here anymore.” Clint grabbed his phone, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Call ‘Zeg and find out what’s happening back in Amsterdam. Phillip’s expecting me back there tomorrow.” 

She nodded and went to collect her own phone from the table in the corner. 

“‘M going for a walk.” He swung his jacket over his shoulders. “Text me when you know something.” And then he was out the door into the soothing night.

Her message caught up to Clint thirty minutes later, and his anger drained away to be replaced by resignation, touched with disappointment as he turned back to the hotel.

_I was seen. Someone knows I was in Amsterdam._

_Do we need to drop this and move on?_

_As soon as I know who it was, we’re taking care of them and then we’re taking back those plans._

Neither of them spoke as they prepared for bed, and Clint made sure to set his alarm to vibrate, sticking it in the neck of his t-shirt for good measure, as he slipped out his hearing aids and pulled up the covers.

He’d have to let Phillip know Anton would be missing their date on Monday.

_____

Sunlight was pouring through the window and there was a strange tingling sensation around Clint’s crotch when he awoke the next morning. Trying to leap away from what his body read as “warmth” was one of Clint’s _less good_ ideas, as his feet were not awake enough to follow his head. The sheets tangled around his legs, and he ended up flopping sideways, barely catching himself before planting his head on the floor. He dangled awkwardly over the side of the bed for several moments before caving to the inevitable and sliding to the floor. Natasha’s sleep-mussed Titian tangle appeared from under her own blankets.

“Alarm,” he signed before reaching into his sleep pants and fishing around for the snooze button. “We seem to have become better acquainted during the night.”

She glared silently for a breath before flopping back and firmly pulling the covers back over her head. Clint pulled his hand-- now holding his phone-- back out of his pants and glanced at the time. He could shower and find a cup of coffee before Phillip would be up, and Clint wanted to be fully awake before he made that call.

Finally, clean, dressed, and sitting in the small diningroom at the hotel, well on his way to caffeinated, Clint dialed Phillip’s number.

“Do you miss me yet?” he asked when he heard the line connect.

There was a startled silence. 

“I do.” Phillip’s voice was small, strained. 

“What’s wrong?” Clint felt his face go pale as he waited for the answer. Phillip’s sigh made his heart stutter slightly. This was _not_ going to be good news. Clint tried to ignore the urge to reach into the phone and wrap Phillip close, find out what had hurt him and beat it. He’d gotten six arrows into a fantasy about defending Phillip from an unidentified band of villainous bullies before realizing that Phillip was answering his question. 

“I’m stuck in Rotterdam for another few days.” _Oh._ Oh, if that was all… Clint could work with that. “My boss decided that, since I was onsite, I could meet with a few of his contacts here. He apparently missed the memo that stated that I was on vacation for four weeks. So I'm here until Wednesday, at the earliest.”

Clint’s nerves whooshed out of him in a warm laugh. “Rotterdam isn’t so far from Amsterdam. I could get there easily enough. Come see you? Distract you after your meeting? Stay there until you come back to Amsterdam?”

“That… It would…” Phillip’s voice went breathless. “You’d do that? _Could_ you do that?”

“Yes, Phillip.” Clint knew the grin on his face was ridiculous, but he’d be damned if he could rein it in. “I can, and I will.”

Phillip kept him on the line a bit longer, solidifying plans. Clint’s heart was thumping steadily but hard, imaging what he could _do_ with at least forty-eight hours of uninterrupted seduction time. Until Phillip offered-- no, _insisted_ \-- that he would pay for Anton’s (own, separate, lonely) hotel room, and was there any particular hotel he wished to stay at? Clint decided to call it a win to at least be in the same city, well, for Phillip to know they were in the same city, and let go of his Romantic Twosome Getaway dreams. 

And then came the hitch in Clint’s plans:

“Let me know what train you’ll be on, and I’ll meet you at the station.”

 _Shit. Wasn’t planning on_ being _on a train._

“You don’t have to do that,” Clint tried. 

“I insist. You’re coming all this way to see me…” Phillip went breathy again, sounding so… pink. “It’d… it’d be the first time something good happened to me in Rotterdam…”

“Yes, yes.” Clint gave up. Phillip was clearly a gentleman, and who was _he_ to argue with that. He’d never had a boyfriend with breeding before. “I’ll call you before I board.”

“If I’m in a meeting, I may not have my phone on, so leave a message.” Phillip gave a small hum. “I’ll be sure to check it often. With luck, you’ll get me out of there before it gets tedious.”

They disconnected the call, and Clint loped back up to his room, goofy smile still smeared across his face. 

“We should go elsewhere for a few days.” Nat was arched over the computer when Clint unlocked the door.

“What?” Clint stepped into the room and quickly latched the door behind him. “No! Nat! We can’t. _I_ can’t!”

Turning in her chair, she studied his face. “Convince me to stay.”

_____

Phil slid his phone onto the nightstand and climbed out of bed, intent on a shower and letting off some steam, so to speak, ruefully wondering how this had become him life. _Forty-five years old and having twice-daily sessions with my right hand like some agent-in-training at the academy._ He should probably resent Anton for unsettling his mind, his routine, and his hormones like this. But the image of Anton loping across the airport with his dirty blond spikes, his brilliant eyes, and his smile all gleaming softened Phil's aggravation. Anton was simply the most gorgeous human Phil had ever seen, and he was proving to be as lovely in personality as looks. 

Afterward, as he held himself up on trembling legs while he shampooed his hair and shaved by touch, Phil tried to ground himself with images from his real life: his comfortable apartment, the competitive camaraderie with his friends, the thrill of the chase that his job so graciously provided with regularity. It looked so lackluster and unfulfilling from this side of Amsterdam. 

He rinsed off quickly and began to contemplate clothing while he toweled his hair dry. 

Laundry was rapidly becoming a problem. He'd only packed an overnight bag on his way out of Amsterdam, in addition to grabbing the garment bag with his remaining clean suit, and all of it except the suit was in need of a wash. Brisk walks under the warm summer sun, especially when combined with Phil's nerves, was a recipe for sweat. And, of course, the only suit Phil had left was his best wool and silk blend, bespoke and better-fit than his SHIELD-issue blacks. It would have to do for the day, and Phil needed to get it on quickly if he was to get the rest of his clothing to the concierge in time to have something else to wear for his evening date with Anton.

A large-eyed woman who spoke flawless English assured him that his clothing would be ready in plenty of time for supper, and Phil tried not to resent the fact that all his boxers were in the bag he handed to her. Going commando always left him feeling strangely vulnerable, but there was no help for it at the moment. Maybe Phil would have time to do some basic necessities shopping before Anton got into town.

As Phil headed across the street for breakfast and a (several) cup(s) of coffee, he pulled his phone from his inner pocket to call Jasper, knowing he was on the night shift as punishment for his clerical carelessness. The official line was that Fury wanted only himself, Maria, and Jasper electronically watching Phil’s six in this mission, but no one missed that only Jas got the lousy shifts.

"Anyone in Rotterdam qualified to update me on what Malene’s learned while I've been here, Jas?"

“Let me see who’s been briefed and see if I can set something up.” The muted clatter of his keyboard rattled over the line. “Speaking of ‘set something up…’”

“No, Jasper.” Phil pinched the bridge of his nose. “We are not talking about this right now.”

“So Maria can have all the details, but I, who did all the work to get you this god among men, have to deal with nothing but your hostility and her innuendo?” 

“You don’t get credit for making a mistake.” Phil huffed and leaned his shoulder against a wall to finish his conversation before stepping into the restaurant. “And all you’ve succeeded at here is making this mission more frustrating for me and much more dangerous for Anton.”

“Fine, fine.” Jasper was grinning; Phil could hear it, and he wanted to reach through the phone and throttle him for it. “You’re going to cave eventually. Until then, I’ve found someone who has some spare time for Legendary Covert Agent Phil Coulson in a couple of hours. I’ll email you the info.”

Phil grunted at him and hung up.

One thing that could be said about Dutch Intelligence’s SHIELD-a-like branch: not one of them that Phil had ever met _looked_ like a spy. Every last one of them had an open, friendly face and looked as if they’d never stood for a few hours on the business end of a gun held by a wannabe crime lord with a twitchy finger and delusions of oratory grandeur. The one sitting across the table that afternoon was a perfect example. He was a fresh-faced young man with dark skin and doe eyes, and he looked so blandly normal that his name was forgotten as soon as it was said. Phil was a little jealous; it’d taken him years to cultivate that level of don’t-notice-me, and this guy seemed unaware of the power he wielded. He had, however, also raised the Dull Drone to an art form, and Phil was starting to quietly hate him.

 _Maybe they keep a backlog of this sort to hand off to me when I’m in a hurry._ It was an uncharitable thought, but Phil was beginning to struggle with keeping his mild “Agent Coulson” smile affixed to his face. He wondered if it would be impolite to ask for a tape to help him stick the corners of his lips up. He also wondered if it would be impolite to use the requested tape to stick this poor young man to the wall long enough for Phil to get away.

A quick button poke showed no new texts on Phil’s phone, and he huffed an exasperated sigh, glaring at the blank notification screen as he _willed_ it to light up with a text message.

“Mister Marcus?” The Nice-Young-Man-Who-Couldn’t-Possibly-Be-A-Spy fumbled to a halt in his prepared speech, and Phil tried to hoist his face back into something less scowly.

“I’m sorry.” He folded his hands in front of him on the table and leaned forward in a semblance of interest. “I have seen all of this information before. When I was briefing for the mission. Is there anything _new_? Have we gotten any hits on possible buyers? Is this going to be a simple hand-off, or is there some kind of auction going on?”

“I… I don’t know?” Bland Young Agent, blinked rapidly. “Agent Beck has been asking around, I think, but… there’s nothing in here yet.”

"So what you're telling me, and correct me if I'm wrong, is that I have listened to you go over intelligence reports-- reports I have already read for myself-- for two hours for no good reason at all." Phil leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Agent Fresh-Faced-Boy looked cowed, and Phil thanked luck that he was in his best suit. Intimidation was easier with the correct window dressing. "Look, son, I appreciate thoroughness, but I do not appreciate having my time wasted. Next time, 'nothing new to report, sir' will suffice."

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, that’s… There’s…” Phil started to feel a twinge of guilt as he watched the kid flounder. “There’s one more thing added to the file just this morning. Umm…”

Phil leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands folded together. “What have they gotten?”

“There’s a report from Brown and Richolt here…”

“The weapons’ developer? Have they uncovered new information about the theft?” Phil grabbed his briefcase, pulling out and flipping open his laptop and connecting to SHIELD’s sat connection to immediately file his report.

“There’s… it’s just a rumor, you understand,” the man held up one hand, scanning down the page in front of him with the other. “Here it is. Okay, it appears that the security team that was hired vanished the day after the theft. They reported to work, and then they were just… gone. The number they had previously been contacted at no longer worked, and the account their fees had been deposited in was closed.”

“Do we have a name for this team of shady and dubious protection?” Phil was typing madly, telling Jasper to collect all the financial records he could get his hands on from Brown and Richolt. 

“No, sir, and that’s the strangest part. They appear to have been hired by someone outside the company. Possibly someone with a financial interest in B and R. But… no one seems to know who.”

“Thank you, so much Mister…”

“Da Silva, sir.”

“Thank you, Mister da Silva.” Phil pressed enter and closed down his laptop, sliding it away and rising. He held his hand out for a handshake. “If I find anything of interest, I will be sure to let you know. I’m sorry for running so suddenly now, but I have something pressing to take care of before an appointment this evening. Thank you again for taking the time.”

Phil pulled out his phone after he escaped the building, determined to find a store and some fresh drawers before Anton arrived. A lack of underthings might make their reunion far too awkward to take place in public. But, of course, just as the list of places to shop began to load, the screen switched to an incoming call and Anton's number blazed across the screen.

____

 

Clint let himself into his and Nat’s room in Amsterdam cautiously. Nothing appeared to be disturbed, but he didn’t slip his gun back into the waistband of his jeans until he’d cleared the tiny bathroom and peered under both beds ( _Who do you think is coming for you, Barton? It’d take a paper doll to fit under there_ ). 

When he’d first told Nat that he was staying parked quite firmly in Rotterdam to spend some time with Phillip, she had exploded at him, waving her arms and cursing at him in easily a dozen languages. She had given all the (very good) reasons for leaving the country for a few days: losing their possible tail, getting far enough out to have time to make plans once they received information from ‘Zeg, give Clint some time to get his head out of his ass about _some man_. And Clint had let her go until she finally ran out of new ways to call him reckless before he finally interrupted the tirade.

“He’s putting me up in whatever hotel I want, so we can spend a few days _not_ living off our retirement fund.” Clint sat on the edge of his bed and caught her wrist to drag her down beside him. She was tense to trembling under his arm as he wrapped it around her shoulders. “He’s been roped into work, even though he’s supposed to be on vacation, and I don’t want him getting so caught up with business that he forgets what he’s really here for. And he sounds lonely. Like… like me before I met you lonely. Not just far away from home lonely.”

“Clint…” She pulled away and studied his face.

“I _know_ , Nat.” He sighed once and then forced himself to remember Phillip’s contagious excitement when Clint’d offered to go to him. “But I gotta do this. Not just for him, and not just for us, but… for _me_.”

Nat shook her head at him, but subsided, not giving in but not arguing anymore. Clint actually returning to Amsterdam had been her idea, with the thought that no one had _for certain_ made him yet, and so no one was probably looking for him. That probably was enough for him to at least duck into their rooms and grab some clothing. She had also made him promise-- twice-- to get her shampoo and collect her second-favorite knife from under her mattress. 

Before leaving, he peeled up the carpet in one corner to make certain the hidden space under the floorboards had not yet been disturbed, and then, satisfied that his bow was safe, he left, locking the door behind him. In the hall, Clint took one minute to mentally scan his bag and make sure he had his favorite jeans and a pair of nicer slacks, and then he headed back to the station to catch the next train back to Rotterdam.

Clint, of course, managed to forget one important detail of his plan: he failed to call Phillip until nearly the end of the journey. He fumbled his phone, when he remembered, nearly dropping it in his haste to dial. 

“Anton?” Phillip sounded breathless as he answered, and that hint of emotion went straight to Clint’s groin. He nearly groaned, imagining what _else_ he could do to get that same breathless gasp of his assumed name. “Anton, are you there?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Clint muttered. “I am. I’m… I’m nearly to Rotterdam. Another fifteen minutes. I forgot… Was thinking about… I’m sorry. We could meet somewhere else?”

“No, it’s fine.” Phillip spoke over the end of Clint’s sentence. “I’ll be there in just a few minutes. Just… just wait for me.”

Clint deboarded, and stood in the milling sea of people, fidgeting with the strap of the duffle thrown over his shoulder. He watched the faces around him out of habit, scanning them through his memory, watching for matches and danger. And then he saw Phillip and everyone else vanished.

He was swaggering through the crowd, his gate predatory and implacable, and people melted out of his way, either ducking away from the intense expression, but more likely making way for the Suit. And that Suit deserved the capital S in Clint’s mind. The sable fabric lay smoothly over Phillip’s shoulders, emphasizing the span of them, sleeves smooth over the arms, just hinting at the bulge of biceps that they hid. The tie at his throat was knotted in a perfect Windsor, centered just at the hollow of the throat where Clint had rested his lips, had dared to dart his tongue over the delicate skin. Clint’s blood heated up, imaging what else the Suit was hiding, but it was the strut that took him over the edge, short-circuiting his brain and making his hands reach out without his conscious volition as soon as Phillip was within touching distance. 

Phil’s heart leaped when he caught sight of Anton’s messy spikes through the crowd, and he focused in on the sharp eyes below the tousled locks. He imagined he could see Anton’s eyes go from their cool blue to the hot green they became when he was aroused, and he’d have sworn he could feel his own pupils dilate in response. The restlessness of the morning evaporated, and his irritation with the over-long meeting vanished in the heat of his hunger. 

Anton was finally _right there_ , and Phil could not resist stepping close, reaching out. He found he didn’t have to resist, as Anton’s hands came up, clutching at the lapels of Phil’s jacket, dragging them together. Anton’s mouth closed over his, and Phil’s arms slid around his shoulders-- the shoulders he’d been imagining under his hands every time he climbed in the shower. Every time he climbed in bed. Every time he stood still for more than five seconds. And then Phil forgot everything except the lips against his, the tongue sweeping into his mouth, the nearly-inaudible groans and gasps that he drank in as he kissed back. He finally realized that they were in public, and that this was going to go much further right here in the train station than Phil was willing to go in private if they kept it up. Anton seemed to come to the same conclusion as he gentled the kiss, finally just sucking on Phil’s bottom lip a second before pulling away.

“You…” His voice was hoarse. “That suit. You’re wearing that for our wedding.”

Phil froze, ready to pull away, but then Anton was kissing him again, gentler now, cheeks pink where Phil could see them up close through his own nearly-closed eyes. 

Phil pressed one last tender kiss against Anton’s glossy-wet, swollen mouth and then stepped back, letting their hands tangle and their fingers weave together. 

“Let’s go get you checked in and then see about something to eat,” he said gruffly, pulling Anton behind him as he turned to go back to the cab stand outside.

 

Dinner was delightful, conversation between them relaxed, playful, even though Phil never had managed to change out of his suit. Or find underwear. But he couldn’t quite forget what Anton had said to him in the station. _Our wedding_ , he’d said. As if it were a foregone conclusion. And, damn Jasper and damn the job and damn this mission and just damn _everything_ , Phil wanted that. He wanted with a ferocity that hurt, that cut deep and sharp, and he knew he was bleeding out, Anton dripping from the wound. And damn Phil himself, he didn’t want a bandage.

They kissed goodbye outside Anton’s hotel room, and Phil understood now why he’d requested this odd hotel on a boat in the river. The doors were easily accessible from outside, and Phil would’ve been able to walk right up and right in-- had he been so inclined-- with no one the wiser. Phil tried to keep the kiss chaste, knowing that there had to be a limit to his own self-denial, but his tongue brushed against Anton’s bottom lip, and Anton opened to him, going pliant in Phil’s arms; Phil couldn’t resist pressing forward. He braced Anton’s back against the hotel room door as he deepened the kiss, losing himself in the slow grind of Anton’s hips against his own. 

Finally, _finally_ Phil managed to pull away. 

“I… I can’t tonight,” he whispered, hating himself just a little for how badly he wanted to ignore his conscience, for how desperately he wanted to let Anton unlock that door, shove him through it, and then press him down onto the bed inside and just _take_ what was clearly on offer. “Not… Just not tonight.”

“Okay.” Anton stepped forward and rubbed his nose along Phil’s cheekbone. “Okay. But… I would. If you wanted. I want. Whenever you're ready.”

Phil shivered, kissed him gently once more, and then backed away. He _had_ to back away; there were only a few seconds left before he caved and hurled himself back into Anton’s arms, his lips, his… him. He decided to walk back to his own hotel, giving himself some time to process what had happened, what he wanted, how he felt. He was thankful it was such a short walk.

He had nearly made it to the front entrance when time stopped and the evening went to hell.

“Agent Coulson.” Phil froze at the voice out of the shadows. “Just fancy meeting you here.”

A man stepped into the glow of the streetlights, shorter than Phil, wider than Phil, and flanked by two human-shaped brick walls. 

“Portier.” Phil stepped back, loosening his stance, knowing he would have to defend himself. Knowing that there was no one to come to his rescue. “Still working for AIM? I’d have thought you’d have clued into their uselessness and gone looking for a new boss by now.”

“Ohhhh, Coulson.” Portier grinned, a strangely wolfish look on his little piggish face. “You lack the imagination to see what’s…”

Phil didn’t let him finish, spinning and slamming his fist into the side of Portier’s head, ducking the return punch thrown by the goon on the left. The one on the right caught him in the kidneys, however, and Phil stumbled, twisting clear to look for the next opportunity to strike. They fought for several minutes, and one of the giants was down. Portier dropped back, spraying blood as he shook his head to clear it from Phil’s last punch.

 _I might actually get out of this,_ Phil thought to himself, ducking another swing and spinning to kick the hired grunt in the knee. _Shocking, given my usual history with Rotterdam. Nothing good_ ever _happens to me in Rotterdam._

Phil stomped at his opponent’s instep and swung his elbow up to catch the man’s face. He dropped like a rock, and Phil turned to finish taking down Portier. 

That was when the metal bar swung out of the dark, cracking against Phil’s skull, turning the world to sparkling stars that flashed and flickered and then went out, one by one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: Phil in a pickle; Nat is a pickle; Clint gets a pickle
> 
>  
> 
> I am still just in shock over how well this has been received! I can't even tell you how much I appreciate your comments and kudos. There are genuinely no words. 
> 
> And hang on, everybody; things are about to get messy!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But good things_ never _happen to me in Rotterdam!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning for mild descriptions of blood and minor injuries.**
> 
> Warning for sexual contact while in an altered state (concussion), although, when the pants come off, everyone is quite fully onboard. 
> 
>  
> 
> _This chapter includes a fantastic description of what NOT to do for someone with a head injury. Please take all head injuries to the nearest location for emergency medical services. These are secret agents who are used to dealing with things on their own; they have clearly treated too many of their own concussions._

After watching Phillip walk away (and the picture those shoulders made in that suit would liven up years of boring sniper assignments to come), Clint unlocked the door to let himself into the room he'd requested. He knew Phillip wanted to put him up someplace fancier, but Clint had stayed here before, and the second exit in this tiny space had saved his life twice on that trip. This room was both a convenience and a lucky charm.

He kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the bed, hating the European tradition of simply shoving two small beds together to make a larger one; Clint always found himself getting wedged in the crack. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and dialed.

"Yes, Nat, I'm safe." He spoke before she got out a greeting. "And God! But that man can kiss!"

He listened to her mutter for a moment, feeling his smile go soft and embarrassing as he answered. "Hell yes, I offered! You should have seen what he was wearing. Wanted to peel him out of it with my _teeth_."

Nat swore at him a few minutes longer, but he ignored it, knowing she was just worried: about Clint, about the mission, about Clint's ability to be occasionally distracted from his target by a good lay (not that _that_ had happened in nearly a decade. Much).

"Why don't you come on over? Give up that room and stay here tonight and tomorrow."

Her silence in reply was eloquent, and he back-pedalled quickly.

"Or keep that room so you have somewhere to sleep if I get to bring him back here tomorrow. That's fine. But come over, anyway."

She hung up on him.

"Love you, too," he said to dead air.

Clint _really_ wanted to climb in the shower with his left hand and the taste of Phillip on his lips, but, knowing Nat…

He wasn’t surprised when, just as he crawled into bed in nothing but a pair of flannel pants, the lock on the second door, the one that led from the deck rattled, and Natasha slid silently into his room and slipped into the bed closest to the wall.

____

Phil woke up enough to come to three realizations at once. First, he was lying in an exceptionally uncomfortable position with his legs sprawled in a most undignified manner. Second, pavement never got softer or more welcoming, and, in fact, became harder and unfriendlier as one aged. And, finally, he had some gratitude to express. 

"He's waking up." A booming male voice entirely too near Phil's right ear spoke the words in Dutch, and translating took Phil a few seconds too long. "You're alive then?" 

Phil nodded, dazed, and looked up to one of the largest men he'd ever seen in real life. Streetlights glowed golden off the thick hair and shaggy beard of a veritable Viking. The light was blocked suddenly by the sudden appearance of another man behind the shoulder of the first.

"Head injury or twins?" Phil realized the thought had come out of his mouth when the man/men threw back their heads in tandem to laugh.

"Twins." The first man wasn't any quieter in English than he was in Dutch. "You were attacked. What did they want from you?"

"Wallet," Phil answered with the standard "attacked in the street" cover story, an automatic reaction as ingrained as breathing. "Didn’t give me enough time to dig it out before they started hitting me, though. Thank you for stopping them."

"Let us take you to hospital." The second man gestured behind him at a car that was certainly too small to hold both of these giants, let alone squeeze Phil in, too. 

"No." Phil sat up and rubbed a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers brushed a wet gash over his right eye. "No, I'm fine. I'm just... It's only a couple blocks that way. If you could just help me get..."

Speech got more difficult, and Phil found himself bundled into the waiting car, one colossus stuffed into the teeny back seat, the other comically crammed behind the steering wheel, being driven back the way he'd just walked. He gave the name of Anton's hotel and let his mind float.

"We were driving by and saw them kicking you," said the man from the back seat. Oh, that explained the ache in Phil's ribs. "Didn't seem fair, so many against just you. So we stopped to intervene. Celebrating my engagement tonight, or we wouldn't have been out so late."

"Congratulations," Phil managed to mumble. "Wish you all the best."

He dropped further under, drifting until he found himself being hauled out of the car by his armpits and bodily dragged along, all but suspended from the massive arm looped around his back.

"Vier." Phil tried to point to the room numbers. "Vier."

He found himself safely propped against the requested door with the inlaid four gleaming dully in the dim lighting. 

"'M okay now. Thank you." His rescuers slapped him a bit too energetically in the shoulder and stomped merrily away into the night. Phil pressed his cheek into the door, lifting one hand to knock, mumbling against the wood. He might have been saying Anton's name or his own, or he might have just been groaning, but he couldn’t quite hear himself. The door opened at last, and Phil found himself caught by powerful arms, gentle hands, and brilliant blue eyes as he dropped forward.

____

Nat going stiff against Clint’s back dragged him from slumber. He fumbled for the lamp first and then his hearing aids as she slid quietly out from behind him, gun already drawn from under her pillow. Once his ears were in, he heard the weak thumping against the door, and Clint drew his own gun from under the edge of the mattress as he went to peer carefully out the peephole. He started swearing under his breath.

"Is P," he signed to Natasha, quickly stepping back to drop his pistol into the duffel bag sitting on the spare chair in the room. "Fix bed and _go_!"

A muscle ticked in her jaw as she watched him walk back toward the door, his hand already reaching for the lock. She finally nodded and spun to do as he asked, smoothing the covers and fluffing her pillow with the same speed and efficiency she usually employed in causing bodily harm.

"Call me!" Her wrist and elbow were stiff as she signed the command when she finished. 

He made a fist and bobbed it twice. _Yes_

He waited until he heard the side door click behind her before he opened the front door. Phillip was leaning hard enough against the wood that he stumbled into the room, into Clint’s chest, reaching out and clinging as he started to fall.

 

“Oh shit, Phillip!” Anton’s arms came up to catch, and Phil registered the smooth slide of skin along his cheek. “What happened to you?”

Phil tried to focus on Anton’s face, but his eyes weren’t speaking to one another. What he could see suggested that Anton wasn’t wearing a shirt. It was a good look on him, no shirt. Phil patted the nearest blurry pectoral happily.

“Come on, Phillip,” Anton said, gathering Phil close to his chest. It was a nice chest. Warm. Strong. Solid. Phil couldn’t stop rubbing his cheek against it. “Who did this to you?”

“S’no big thing,” Phil replied in English, feeling much too tired to translate his thoughts into Russian. “Just a few pinches.”

He tweaked Anton’s nipple.

"I mean punches." He tweaked the nipple again and then frowned. “Think I do, ‘nyway.”

“Phillip!” Anton pushed him back a few inches and shook him gently. Phil looked up at him, but Anton still had two and a half eyes. Or maybe four. It was too hard to be sure which eyes he was supposed to be looking at, so he quit trying to look at eyes and went back to eyeballing the expanse of skin near his face.

His head hurt. It hurt _less_ when it was resting against Anton’s chest. He decided to put it back where it hurt less.

“‘S nice here,” Phil said, again rubbing his cheek against the smooth skin of muscular pectorals. “Less bright lights.”

“Shit. Phillip, I need you to stay with me.” Translating was hard right now, but Phil made an effort to understand. This was _Anton_ talking, and Phil wanted to hear _everything_ Anton had to say. He might have said that part aloud. “You have a...” and he finished with a word Phil didn’t know. 

“Think I have a concussion.” Phil winced as the light from the bedside lamp stabbed his eyes.

“Stay with me, baby,” Anton murmured against Phil’s hair as Phil found himself heaved toward the bed. “Please, babe, stay with me.”

“Tha’ sounds like English, dunnit?” Phil slurred when he dropped onto the pillow and found Anton’s changeable blue eyes inches away from his own. This close, there were only two, and he could see them both perfectly. He reached up with one hand to touch Anton’s cheek. “Wish you could speak English. Coulda told you lotta things ‘bout how pretty you are.”

“Phillip!” Anton shook him again, but Phil couldn’t respond anymore, everything starting to get dark again. Yes. A nap. Nap would be good. Head’d hurt less after some rest. And _then_ Phil’d be able to answer Anton, tell him how pretty he was. “Baby, wake up!”

After sight was gone, before his hearing left, too, Phil heard Anton’s desperate voice near his head say, “Nat! Something happened to Phillip. He’s hurt. Need help. You gotta get back here.”

____

“What happened, Anton?” Nat tried to keep her voice low as she slipped into the room with the silk bag that carried her dwindling medical supplies; the aftermath of that week in Smolensk had done a number on her bandages. She shook off that thought and took stock of the tableau in front of her. Phillip was a bit bloody, bruises on his cheekbone, blood on his lip and his temple. The crisp white of a clearly-expensive shirt was stained with still-tacky red around the collar. 

“I don’t know, Nat.” Clint looked up, face pale and worried, from where he sat beside Phillip on the bed. “He just showed up here and fell into my arms.”

“You always did like it when they swooned.” She watched the tiny hitch in Phillip’s chest as he inhaled. “We need to get him out of a few of these layers so I can see what other damage there might be. Why didn’t you call emergency services?” She thought she could guess the answer. Clint tenderly unknotted Phillip’s necktie and slide it out of the collar before carefully unbuttoning ruined shirtfront and reaching to loosen the elegantly plain silver cufflinks.

“And tell them what, Natalya?” Clint lifted Phillip’s upper body with gentle hands, drawing his head in to rest carefully against Clint’s shoulder as he slid the jacket and shirt off of his arms, . “They’d have to call the police, and I don’t want _this_ name showing up on any official report. What if someone looked into my history?”

“So you called me.” She didn’t phrase it as a question. Something about the lack of clinical detachment in the way Clint was handling this man unsettled her. She hadn’t seen him this cautious with someone since… since six months ago in Russia, when Clint had burst into the cell where she was being held, killing her captors with an arrow through each of their windpipes before turning to wipe the blood off her face with his own shirttail. 

She closed her eyes, trying to breathe through the memories. She had been so stupid, so careless, but sleep had been getting increasingly rare, and she wasn’t capable of making wise decisions by then. When she got word that a new team of world-dominion-seeking baddies bought the plans, it had seemed such a simple thing to break into their lab to retrieve them. They'd been sleeping rough for several weeks, so when they found themselves in a decent bed for that one night, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to wake Clint before she left. In her eagerness to end the mission and keep their perfect record intact, she had done only a cursory background check on the fledgling organization. Safety had become too commonplace to her, and she’d spent so long watching Clint’s back that she’d almost forgotten how to watch her own. Clint had always made watching her back his own Priority One, and she'd learned _too well_ to trust him. She had not so much _forgotten_ as she'd _repressed_ that she still had enemies in Russia. Enemies from before.

“Nat?” Clint’s voice startled her back to the present; he knew what she was picturing. His face, when she opened her eyes, was pinched She smiled softly at him, unsure if she was reassuring him that she was here for him or reassuring herself that he was still here for her.

He had Phillip stripped to the waist and was settling on the far side of the bed, kneeling where he was out of the way of Nat’s examination but staying close enough to slide his hands over Phillip’s skin. The possessiveness of his fingertips against the thick hair of Phillip’s muscular chest made something clench in her stomach.

“I am fine.” She told him, swallowing down her irrational flash of jealousy. _He will always have my back; this is just a temporary interruption_ , she reminded herself. “Let’s make sure this man of yours is, too, eh?”

Clint wiped the blood off of Phillip’s face while she felt along his ribs to check for breaks, but the gash across his temple was still oozed blood. Nat went into the tiny en suite to wash her hands, taking the kettle to fill. She might need to sterilize supplies. They worked together silently for several minutes: Nat making the tiniest, neatest stitches she could manage with one of her last disposable suture kits, Clint wiping away the blood and stroking his fingers through and through Phillip’s hair. After covering the wound with a tidy bandage and a few neat strips of tape, Nat rose to peel off her gloves, wrapping them, the bloody gauze wipes, and the hair-fine needle in a thick plastic bag. 

She tried to pretend she didn’t see Clint lean down to press a soft kiss against a contusion on Phillip’s cheekbone after he’d gently removed Phillip’s shoes and tucked him under the smooth white bed linens. 

“You’ll tell him what?” she asked, turning back to Clint as he shifted onto his side to lie beside Phillip, resting his palm over Phillip’s heart. She didn’t want to see the way his fingertips pressed in, holding on. “When he wakes up, I mean.”

“That I called the desk and they sent a doctor down here. That I was told to take him to a hospital if he didn’t wake up soon.” He looked up at her with wide eyes. “And I will, Nat. But… if I do, I can’t stay with him.”

“Brother,” she signed gently after she repacked the rest of her emergency kit. “You’re getting awfully attached to him. Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Of course not!” Clint snapped aloud. He reached up to brush Phillip’s hair away from the gauze and tape and then sighed. He carried on in ASL: “Dumbest idea I’ve ever had, second only to getting involved with a certain bad-tempered, Russian assassin. But he’s… I don’t know, spider. He’s good. He’s way more than I deserve, but I can’t help wishing.”

“Little brother…” She didn’t know what warning to give, what warning she could give that Clint would listen to. _This isn’t permanent_ or _You know he will hurt you._ Maybe she wanted to tell him _You fall in love too fast, and you never fall back out._ Mostly, she wanted to say, _There is no one in the world_ good enough _for you._ She didn’t like the way Clint was looking at this Phillip when she knew nothing of him but that he was a risk to Clint’s happiness and security. And, if Clint came to love him, he never would allow Nat to take her revenge when Phillip inevitably broke Clint’s heart.

“I know, Natalya.” He traced his fingers gently over Phillip’s lips and reverted to spoken Russian. “But if this is all of this I’ll ever get, I’m going to grab for all of it I can.”

“You deserve more.” Nat walked around the bed and sat behind Clint, one hand resting on his shoulder. She reached up with her other and scratched her nails through Clint’s hair. “Fairy tales aren’t real, no matter how much you want them to be. But you deserve more than this.”

“Made my decision.” His voice was rough, and Nat wondered what was on his face; he didn’t look back at her. She watched Clint’s hand adjusting the blanket where it lay over Phillip’s bruised chest.. “I think I’ve found something good, and at least I’ll know I got to have it for a little while.”

“Anton--” Nat began, but he cut her off.

“So don’t know him. And this isn’t real, but…” He sighed. “This is enough. This has to be enough. At least for right now.”

“And later?” She didn’t add _When you leave him? Will you leave him with the truth or an even more painful lie?_ , knowing Clint could hear it anyway. She tried to stay angry, but mostly she was just sad, already hurting for Clint’s fragile heart. Already worried about the damage a heartbreak could do to their partnership.

“Then I’ll get over it. Always fall in love way too easily, and fall back out just fine.”

Deciding that calling bullshit was futile, Nat leaned close to press a kiss to his temple, rubbing her cheek gently against his before pulling back. She was about to add a warning about when to call for an ambulance when Phil gave a soft groan and his eyelids fluttered once. Nat was off the bed and across the room before he woke enough to see her. As she slipped out the door, Nat looked back to see Clint scooting closer to Phillip’s side, tipping forward to press his lips against the bruises on one freckled shoulder. She sighed, made certain the door latched, and turned toward her own hotel room.

____

 

It was dim. And very white. And something _had_ to be wrong with his barely-open eyes, because Phil could swear the ceiling was sloping. Auditory hallucinations appeared to be on the docket, as well, because there was a soft voice murmuring to him in Russian. There was a dull ache behind his eyes, but it wasn’t terribly persistent, so Phil assumed whatever he’d been given or whatever had happened was beginning to wear off. Phil turned his head and found Anton-- beautiful, rumpled, worried-eyed Anton-- leaning close over him. His voice choked off when Phil moved. 

Closing his eyes fully, Phil reached up to rub them with one hand, as the other was tightly clasped between both of Anton’s. He pressed against his eyelids hard enough to create sparkles. It took a moment for the twinkling stars to clear, but, yes, Anton was still there, eyes worried but hopeful. 

_Yup. Same dream. Good dream, this._

Phil tried to roll, groaning as his ribs protested. “Ow.”

_Oh yes. Portier and the fight. And the Doublemint Vikings._

“Phillip.” Anton’s face went slack, and he pitched forward with a desperate whine. “You’re okay, thank god, you’re okay.”

Phil found himself wrapped in a tight embrace that had his aching ribs outright screaming, but he ignored his bruises and reached out with eager arms to pull Anton close. How someone so blocky managed to curl into such a small ball against Phil’s chest was a mystery, one that had Phil pondering how many times they’d have to tuck themselves into this position before he solved the puzzle. Nuzzling into Anton’s silky hair, he sighed and held on harder for a moment before finally pulling back to get some information. 

“What happened?” Phil glanced around at the very small hotel room with the sloping roof and the one tiny window beside the back door. “I remember coming back here, but…”

“I called a doctor. Well, the front desk called a doctor.” Anton pulled free and sat up, running exploratory fingers along Phil’s cheekbone, up his temple, and then across Phil’s forehead. Phil’s eyes dropped half-shut, and he tipped his face toward the touch, hissing when they brushed over a bandage above his right eye. _That’s new_. “She stitched your head, and I was supposed to call a hospital if you didn’t wake up in… Shit! Are you alright? Do I need to take you to...”

“It’s okay.” Phil caught Anton’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I’m okay. Really. And I’m glad I’m not in a hospital. _Extremely_ glad not to be in hospital.”

If he had been, it would have gotten back to SHIELD, and Phil would have been pulled from the case until his injuries were healed. And… there wasn’t time for that. The sale of the plans was just three weeks away, and there was no way to get someone else a good cover story in that time. Phil just didn’t want to fail the case. His terror at the thought of leaving now had nothing to do with the young man beside him, staring at him like he was something rare and beautiful and precious.

 _And there’s that blush again. I have_ got _to get that under control._

“Phillip…” Anton’s eyes were wide, concerned, and Phil felt a pang of irritation with his job, that one little run-in with a past mission could put that look on this usually happy face. “What happened to you? You leave, and everything is fine, and then you come back covered in blood and looking like… like _that_.”

“I was mugged. Someone just… it came out of nowhere.” Phil shoved himself up and reached out to touch Anton’s face. He hated the lie, but he knew he could tell the truth about the second half of the story. “I was rescued by two very _large_ men who wanted to take me somewhere medical. Told them to bring me here. It was… All I could think about was… I just knew I had to get to you.”

There wasn’t time to process what happened next, but Phil found himself lying flat, pinned to the mattress with a hot, wet mouth covering his own. It was possibly lingering effects of the head injury, but, if this was a hallucination, Phil never wanted to wake up. Lip stinging where the kiss pulled on a split, Phil whined but didn’t try to pull away. The hot, hard weight of Anton crushed him into the bed, and his own hands clung to Anton’s miles of bare, muscular shoulders and _would not let go_.

“I was scared when I opened the door.” Anton broke away from Phil’s mouth, and Phil’s skin burned where his lips trailed down Phil’s neck. “You were so… And then you became [ _some word Phil didn’t understand_ ] and I… You’re okay. Oh, I’m glad you’re okay. Frightened me...”

Phil tried to answer, but all he managed was a tiny whimper that bubbled up out of his chest. Anton’s teeth scraped against the stubble of Phil’s throat, and Phil forgot how to breathe.

Anton was still speaking, mouth blurring the words into Phil’s skin, but Phil’s brain was past translating, and all he registered was the fervent tone. The blanket was shoved down, and cool air kissed his chest a moment before Anton’s lips did. Phil curled forward, trying to ignore the protest of his bruised ribs as he struggled to free himself from the sheets. He ended up tangled and swore, flailing, angry when the fabric blocked his view of Anton’s face until Anton managed to get the whole pile kicked clear.

“You were so still. I thought I’d lost you before I ever… Thought you were dead and I never got to…” Phil had no idea what Anton was saying to him, and he found he didn’t particularly care, so long as there was more kissing. Kissing was _good_. “Should have kept you here last night. Begged you. Made you stay. Wanted to… Wanted you… Need you so much. Just… I… Phillip. Please.”

Higher reasoning completely offline, Phil shoved himself up to reach for Anton’s biceps-- _When did he grow four arms? Fucking head wound_ \-- yanking him roughly back up for more lip on lip action. And while he had Anton here, all his assets in such convenient reach, might as well see if that ass really did fit into his palm the way it looked like it would. Phil groped about until _Oh. Oh_ yes _it did_.

A voice that sounded suspiciously like Fury growled in the back of Phil’s mind. It reminded him that this was ridiculously over the line, completely unprofessional, damned near unforgivable. Phil took a stuttering breath to… surely not to call a halt, but to say _something_. Before he made a sound, the wind was punched right back out of him when Anton flipped a leg over Phil’s hips and writhed against him like a snake. 

The last of Phil’s ability to resist left with that breath and he let go, free-floating in the ocean that was Anton’s hot breath and burning tongue. 

“Wanted you when I saw you. Can’t look and not touch… need to…” 

_Teeth!_ Oh those were teeth against Phil’s nipple, and a shout echoed through the room. It took Phil a few moments in his addled state to realize the shout had come from his own throat. And that the shout had friends that were still spilling out. It took a few more moments before he realized that the shouts had words in them. There was a sting of disappointment when he realized he was speaking English, followed by a wave of relief as he tried to imagine what Anton would think if he could understand the things Phil was saying.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, Anton! Your mouth… God!” That part wasn’t so bad. It was what came after that was not in Phil’s usual repertoire of dirty talk. “Can’t believe I got someone like you. Expected… don’t know what I expected, but not… fuck, you’re so fucking perfect. Gorgeous. But nice, too. Fuck! Yes! More of that! Fuck yes! Want to take you home… Shit yes. Oh god! Oh god! Fuck! Wanna… Shit!”

Anton shivered against Phil’s hands, body pressing down harder as his fingers and teeth stuttered against Phil’s collarbone. All words cut off as he launched himself back at Phil’s mouth, landing in a kiss that was more of an attempt to devour. Phil was relieved by his own silence for a moment, and then he forgot his embarrassment. And it _had_ to be the concussion that let him lose all track of time. Yeah, that was… mmmmmph…

 

Clint considered stopping. He really did _try_ to think about attempting to stop, at least. But then Phillip had to go and start saying _that_ , and that was the end of Clint’s ability to resist. Part of him wanted to just get naked right now and see if Phillip would keep talking, keep making Clint’s heart stutter and bob. Keep making him feel… there weren’t words to describe this feeling. Those were _tears_ in Clint’s eyes, goddamnit, and he just _couldn’t_ listen to this anymore. If he did… He took a shaky breath.

If he did, he’d do something really stupid. Like say yes.

He climbed back up Phillip’s body and blindly hunted for lips with his mouth. He kissed, licked, bit until he was sure the monologue had dried up and then pulled away, pressing his face into the side of Phillip’s neck to hide his still-wet eyes.

“Please,” Clint pleaded, his lo- No. His _lust_ -addled brain barely remembered to stick to Russian. He dragged his teeth along the soft skin of Phillip’s throat. “Please, I need to… Please let me…”

“Yes. Anything. Just… да!” Phillip was amazing under Clint’s mouth, bucking and writhing, groaning or gasping with every lick or nibble Clint pressed to his skin. 

Clint reared back on his heels, wiggling backward to loosen Phillip’s belt, unfasten the waistband, unzip his trousers. He grabbed two fistfuls of fabric and tugged, baring Phillip to the knees, and _Oh!_ that was a prize worth uncovering. Clint’s mouth watered in anticipation. Leaning forward, he swirled his tongue around the head before forcing his mouth down further, and Phillip’s fingers fumbled their way from Clint’s shoulder to his hair. 

“Ohgod, yestherethat… You-I-We… Fuck! Oh _fuck!_ ” Phillip had gone incoherent, unable to complete words in any language; Clint smiled around his mouthful. Sexy, intelligent, multi-lingual businessman in the pretty, pretty suit reduced to _this_ by Clint’s mouth alone. 

_How’d I get so damned lucky?_

He pulled his mouth up, slowing his pace, lightening his suction, and let his fingers begin to play gently over the soft skin of Phillip’s inner thighs, up his hips, and across the surprisingly firm, toned, perfect curve of his abdomen. He lost himself in a gentle rhythm, wrapping himself in the musky scent of Phillip’s skin, drowning in the taste. Phillip shivered under him, fingers tightening in Clint’s hair as his shouts faded to wordless whispers, as if he couldn’t gather himself enough for anything louder.

 _I want to do this forever._

The thought startled Clint out of his zen pace, and his arms turned unexpectedly noodly. Tipping forward, his face sank lower than he’d intended, throat opening the way it had learned to do under the press of cold steel; this sword was much more welcome. Clint found his nose pressed in the dark, wiry hair of Phillip’s groin. The hips under Clint’s hands bucked, once, twice, and then, with a shout that was closer to a scream, Phillip cracked apart and Clint swallowed, trying to keep his face down to hide the dampness he again felt collecting along his eyelashes. 

Phil pooled into the mattress, hoping the fuzziness at the edges of his vision was from the blinding orgasm and not another concussion symptom. It hadn’t been that intense since… _Hmm._ Well, surely it was that good in his younger years. Surely. Blinking the last of the blurring out of his eyes, he looked down to find Anton gazing up, eyes red-rimmed, and Phil felt guilty over the lack of control he’d exhibited toward the end. But, really, who could be expected to lie still through an unexpected deepthroat? 

He cupped the side of Anton’s cheek, noting with a great deal of pleasure that the doubling had mostly faded and Anton was back to only _two_ eyes to wax poetic over. Phil knew he was smiling, stupid and helpless, as he drew Anton up to press a kiss to the Cheshire Cat grin that was building on his perfect, talented, glorious, worthy-of-worship mouth. 

Tasting himself on that velvet-like tongue dragged a groan from Phil’s throat, and had he been twenty years younger, would have been enough to get him ready to go again.

“In a moment, I will take care of you,” he whispered, brushing the back of his knuckles down Anton’s chest. It had clearly been waxed, and Phil clamped his teeth onto his own bottom lip to hold in the thought that followed: _I wonder if I could convince him to stop doing that when we get home._

No. _NO_. There was no “we” going home. This was a one-time, limited-quantities, supplies-going-fast offer. This was the final clearance, everything-must-go sale, and Dammit! Phil was buying. He suspected it was the worst idea he’d ever had, but, looking down at the dopey grin and easy happiness on Anton’s face, Phil knew he was helpless to do anything less than take everything being given so freely.

“You don’t have to do anything. I can give you a different kind of show.” Anton slowly pressed himself to his hands and knees. The catlike sway of his shoulders, his hips, his spine, sucked the air out of Phil’s lungs. His vision snapped clear, and the world narrowed to only the tip of Anton’s red tongue where it brushed across his slick, puffy bottom lip. There was more writhing, and Phil turned his head, hypnotized, to watch Anton’s sleep pants drop over the side of the bed. 

_He’s **naked**!_

Phil didn’t remember moving, but he appreciated the result: Anton pinned to the mattress as his own mouth finally got room to rove across the chest, the rippling abs, the biceps that he’d been fantasizing about for-- _has it really only been six days?_. His teeth clamped into the meat of Anton’s upper arm, pressing just enough to lightly emboss the golden skin. Anton’s full-body shimmy dragged another bite out of Phil, overlapping the first, this one eliciting a desperate gasp and Anton’s hands coming up to tangle in the remains of Phil’s hair.

Anton reached down to stroke himself, and Phil’s brain fizzed and hummed, half of him wanting to rock back on his heels and just watch. The other half, the half that could not keep from touching his beautiful boy, won out in the end. Bracing his elbow on the bed beside Anton’s flushed face, Phil reached down, brushed Anton’s hand out of the way and replaced it with his own. 

“да,” Anton choked, writhing, arching, shivering. _Yes._

Phil twisted his fingers into Anton’s sweat-soaked hair, curving forward to rest his face against the sculpted perfection of Anton’s chest. He worked his hand slowly, loving the sleek hotness and the way his gun callouses barely-caught, slipped, dragged. The enthusiastic growls and cries he got encouraged his stiff arm to keep working, slowly, smoothly. He lost himself in the sounds, in the taste of Anton’s skin under his lips as he pressed tender kisses across the razor-sharp collarbone. 

Anton’s hands clutched Phil’s shoulders and squeezed, and Phil wondered briefly if he was going to end the night with a few more bruises. The wordless, bitten-off shout Anton gave when Phil gave a particularly enthusiastic twist of wrist would make any marks _more_ than worthwhile. And, oh _God_ , it would be something to remember this by. Phil’s hand tightened its grip in Anton’s hair, hoping to encourage a rougher touch on his own body. He hummed, blissful, when he felt blunt nails dig, scrape, clutch at his back and neck.

Wrist speeding up, fist tightening, and so very few tight strokes later, he felt Anton’s body tense, shiver, then go slack as he arched hard, crying out with a nearly broken whimper. Phil curved over him, feeling inexplicably protective as he gently slowed the movements of his hand. Anton’s hands went slack against Phil’s nape, but his arms tugged, pulling them together for another scorching kiss. The softness, gentleness of Anton’s mouth slackened Phil’s muscles, and he oozed down onto the sweat-slick expanse of Anton’s chest, lying still and panting a moment before rolling to the side and tucking Anton’s head under his chin. His clean hand stroked over and over Anton’s back, trying to sooth the quiver of the muscles. 

It was only a few deep breaths later that Anton pulled back to look into Phil’s eyes. He was grinning, eyes bright and happy, body fully relaxed, beautiful in every detail. It took far too much effort for Phil to look away, to reach down beside the bed for Anton’s discarded pants to mop off his hand and Anton’s stomach. He threw the pants aside and rolled back into the heat of Anton’s muscular body, arms reaching out to tuck them snuggly together. 

“Phillip…” Anton’s voice was a rough, hesitant whisper. “I… I find that I like you very much. So very much.”

“Me also,” Phil felt his face heat and, for once, he didn’t really mind. He pulled Anton into one more lazy, tender kiss, and then settled in to sleep. Anton was limp and breathing deeply against Phil’s neck in moments.

Phil wasn’t sure if it was his concussion or his post-orgasmic bliss that made him think in his last moment of consciousness, _But good things_ never _happen to me in Rotterdam!_

____

Clint was warm, his body loose in the way that only good sex or an expert masseuse could make him, and there was an astonishing amount of naked skin pressed against his back, curving close from his shins to the nape of his neck. He was also completely free of the panic he would ordinarily feel upon finding himself pinned in place by a pair of well-muscled arms wrapped around his chest. It was a sensation he was enjoying far too much, far too soon for comfort. 

He and Natasha had both learned the hard way that, when they shared a bed, they woke best when they were pressed back to back, each guarding an angle of approach. And, even when they'd been together for that very short span a decade before, clothing while sleeping had never been optional. The warmth and weight of Phillip's naked, sleeping body against Clint’s bare back was a revelation. 

Clint wished he could actually purr as he shifted infinitesimally deeper into the security of Phillip's embrace. He hoped Phillip's arm wasn't asleep where it was wedged under Clint’s ribs, but, really, he was much too blissful to move himself off of it.

The first indication that Phillip was awake was a nose brushing along his spine, but it was quickly followed by a tightening of those encircling arms and a kiss pressed to Clint's shoulderblade. He shivered and slid his own hand back to stroke up the side of Phillip's thigh where it was folded along his own.

"Good morning." Phillip's sleep-hoarse voice was even more erotic when vibrating directly against Clint's skin, and he shivered again. "Did you sleep well?"

Phillip's smile was sardonic and strained when Clint rolled in his arms. "Good morning, Phillip. I can safely say I have not slept so peacefully in over a year."

"Anton, I..."

Clint cut him off with a kiss, a sudden flash of anger making him move too suddenly, press too hard, and Phillip flinched away imperceptibly before relaxing into the bed and letting Clint have his way. They could both have used a toothbrush, but Clint didn't mind enough to stop until Phillip's chest had begun to heave just a bit.

"If you dare say to me that you regret that, that you wish it hadn't happened..." Clint heard himself let out one small, desperately sad whine. It was not part of the Anton Act. "Please, Phillip. I... That meant something. It was important to me."

One large palm cupped Clint’s face, and he was drowning in a gentle kiss. He hoped it lasted forever.

"The only thing I regret right now is that I have to get out of this bed, take a shower, and go pick up my laundry." Phillip leaned back and smiled a surprisingly lopsided version of his little half-smile. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Clint's eyelid. "And I have to call my boss before I'll know how much of the day I'll have free to spend with you."

Clint felt a new and improved version of his sappiest smile start to grown across his own face. "You'll have to wear one of my shirts. Your shirt has a bit of blood on it.” He bit his lip and gazed seductively up through his eyelashes. “I can provide a little company for your shower."

"I want to say yes more than I have ever wanted anything." Phillip kissed Clint on the nose, and Clint completely humiliated himself by _giggling_ in response. "But I have to hurry, and I wouldn't, if you were there."

Clint tried to pout, but he couldn't get his lips to cooperate. The grin didn’t budge. His face was soon going to forget how to scowl, and Clint _needed_ that scowl for work. 

"Fine." He rolled free and climbed slowly off the bed. "Let me find you a shirt, so you can finish quickly and come back to me."

Phillip stood up stiffly, wincing at protesting bruises, and offered up one more gorgeously naked embrace before firmly shutting himself in the bathroom to get cleaned up for the morning.

_____

Everyone was looking at him. Not that Phil blamed them, really. He’d have looked, had he passed himself in the street. Anton's t-shirt was just a touch snug (and picturing what it must look like stretched across the defined hills of those perfect pecs sent a pulse of heat that Phil was sure was coloring his cheeks) and out of place with Phil's tailored slacks and jacket. So he did the only thing he could do in a situation like this: he parked his aviators on his nose and gave himself a genuine swagger.

 _Yes, I_ did _get laid last night, and yes, it was every bit as amazing as you’re imagining it must have been, to leave me looking like this._

Phil stopped at the desk to check for his messages and pick up his laundry, winking over his sunglasses at the wide-eyed woman who was staring at his purpling eye and ill-fitting shirt with astonishment. He chuckled all the way to his room.

 _What would Jasper think of me right now?_

Not that Jasper would ever hear about this one. Nor Maria. And especially _never_ Nick. 

_Sorry I was late reporting; just busy getting the best blowjob of my life._

Better to stick to the altercation the night before and pretend he’d only been hiding out with his fiance. No, delete that. His _cover_.

He wished the screaming headache and residual hint of nausea would clear up; it’d be easier to enjoy the morning after without a minor concussion poking fine little needles into his eyeballs. 

_Goddamnit, Portier. You will pay._

Phil let himself into his room, his suit dripping onto the floor behind him, phone and watch and keys dropped on the desk as he walked to the bed to dig through the bag of now-clean clothing he was carrying. Boxers and jeans were a must, but Phil couldn’t bring himself to change shirts, in spite of the near-indecent cling of the faded knit he had on. 

He did need to call in, but he decided to wait and opted instead for flopping across the bed, grinning at the ceiling while he let images of the previous night play on a loop through his head. Just a few more minutes as Anton’s Phillip, a few more moments to daydream and enjoy before he had to turn himself back into SHIELD’s Agent Coulson.

____

 

Clint didn’t flinch as the door opened behind him, in spite of being dressed only in his _other_ pair of pajama pants, shower-wet hair, and a large lovebite on his shoulder. Maybe _because_ he was only wearing pjs, water, and a large mark from Phillip. He finished answering the email he was reading (the annual catching-everyone-up from someone he’d worked a couple jobs with in Mexico a dozen years before. She’d retired, married, and given birth to a whole pack of adorable, chubby babies since then), and shut down the little computer. 

“Air’s rather thick in here.” Natasha stepped close to where Clint was leaning over the back of the chair to reach the desk. “So you got what you wanted.” She sounded neither pleased for him nor annoyed with him. 

He straightened and pressed against her tiny form as she wrapped her arms around his waist from behind.

“God, Nat.” His whole body still felt loose and warm, comfortably relaxed for the first time in… Actually, he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been climbing out of his skin unless he had his bow in hand. “Best night I’ve had in… ever?” And then he wanted to slap himself for his insensitivity. “Present company excluded.”

Nat drew away from him and sank to the edge of the bed. Clint watched her as she sat, fidgeting with a fold of the long, loose black skirt she wore, knowing she’d talk when she had decided what to say. Her face, half hidden by the cascade of her brilliant hair, was tight, vulnerable. 

“Why him, Clint?” 

“What about him?” Clint sank down beside her, reaching for her hand.

“Watching you with him last night, you were…” She pulled her hand away and shook her head. “I’m worried that you’re getting too deep.”

“Naw, Nat.” Clint stood up to pace, but there wasn’t enough room in the scrap of floor. He turned a couple of times, ineffectual and caged. Why couldn’t he figure out what to say to make Nat stop looking at him like that? Like she was about to bolt. Like she thought he would. “It’s not like that. I know it won’t stick. I know I have to leave. But… I just want the for-now of it, okay? It’s good and it’s nice and I… It’s just for now.”

She bit her bottom lip and rose, arms folded tightly across her chest. “I don’t want you to get _hurt_.”

“Won’t happen, Sister-mine.” He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest to mirror her pose and smirking at her. “He’s just a nice guy who finally caved to the power of my charms. Or my mouth. One of the two.”

She hummed, thoughtfully and looked away. He could nearly see the gears turning in her brain and whimsically wondered if that was what powered the light that he always say in her eyes, the glow in her hair, the warmth of her concern for Clint.

“There’s…” Her voice was hesitant and soft, and she still didn’t look at him as she stepped around him to take the desk chair. “There is one very important detail you’re overlooking.”

“I think I looked at most of his details last night, but I’m willing to look again.” 

“What did he say happened?” Her back was stiff as she ignored his smartassery, and Clint felt an uneasy, wavy sensation building under his ribs. 

“Mugged. On the walk home.” Clint scowled, trying to remember past the heat of kisses and the blaze of Phillip’s hands. She finally turned to look at him, her expression clearly asking _and then?_

“Apparently a couple of big guys stopped by and rescued him.” He tried to remember what else Phillip might have said, but there was… nothing. There had been so very few details for someone who’d just been traumatically beaten.

“That was no ordinary mugging, Clint.” Her lips tightened to a thin, bloodless line. “Did you see his knuckles? He fought back. Well. He clearly knows how to fight. And...”

Clint pondered, thinking of the bruises down Phillip’s ribs, the blood along his temple. His desire to avoid the hospital. _The ease with which he pinned me to the bed_.

“And his _scars_ , Clint. Did you see his scars?” She sucked in a deep breath. “And those are gun callouses on his hand.”

“So you think…” A wave of acid rocked across Clint’s stomach, and he sucked in a deep breath, unable to finish the sentence.

“He’s not a… He’s not here on business.” Nat licked her lips and looked away. “Unless his business is the same as ours.”

___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week in Male Order Bride: Phil makes a promise; it's time to head back to Amsterdam; some _extremely_ unexpected visitors.
> 
>  
> 
> As a side note, there were LARGE edits to this chapter after my betas had already taken their turns at it. PLEASE let me know if you find anything glaring, and don't blame them; all mistakes are entirely on me.
> 
> Your comments give me joy, inspiration, and a bad case of the squeal-like-a-toddlers, and I cannot adequately thank each and every one of you who is reading, commenting, and kudosing. Each and every one of you inspires me to keep going, and I appreciate the HELL outta all of you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is for the mission_ , he told himself. 
> 
> _Only for the mission._
> 
> _Mission!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Doing it to further the mission._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Just part of the mission._
> 
>  
> 
> _I need this more than air._

Phil sat at his desk where he could plug his phone in to charge while he made his report. He forced himself not to cross his fingers as his call was transferred to Operations, but he did hope Maria was manning the line. She was the _only_ person at SHIELD he could tell what had actually happened the night before without recrimination. Not that sex on ops was _exactly_ forbidden (which was a good thing; otherwise, SHIELD would have lost half their field agents to jobs that gave them more time to fuck and fewer temptingly fit coworkers). However, screwing his cover-- his extremely _young_ cover-- was a slightly different story. First, it was highly unprofessional. Second, it could be viewed as coerced, given the power dynamic of a kid desperate to avoid going back to Russia and the man who wasn’t really his savior. 

The line clicked, and Phil took a deep breath, waiting to see who would answer. Maria would talk him down. Maria would know how to diplomatically word the phrase “surprise blowy.” And if it was Jasper… well, Phil had lived with Jasper’s brand of ribbing for twenty-five years now. The inordinate smugness of having been “right” would be irritating, but Phil would find adequate revenge for _that_ later. 

_Just so long as it’s not--_

“Coulson! Where the holy hell have you been?” 

Phil sighed. Because of _course_ it was his boss. He should have crossed his fingers, because now he got to explain the night before to Fury.

"Sorry, sir. Something came up.” _For both me_ and _my cover_ , he didn’t add. “Ran into an old acquaintance last night. And then a few of his associates ran into me. Repeatedly. With fists and boots.”

There was a pause during which Phil swore he could hear Fury’s raised eyebrow. “We didn’t get a chime from a hospital.”

“Er.” Phil tried to figure out how much to say. “It was handled.” _And so was I._

“Phil.”

“Nick.” 

There was a heavy sigh over the line, and Phil wondered if Fury was pinching the bridge of his nose. They’d had _energetic discussions_ about what constituted adequate medical care many times over Phil’s career. Director Fury wanted his agents to see professionals to keep them in top working condition; Phil believed that he was too damn busy for that nonsense. Phil’s point was bolstered by the fact that most of his duct-tape-and-super-glue self-treatment was learned from his SO, _Senior Agent_ Nick Fury. 

“Who made you?” Fury finally asked, clearly deciding that Phil was being intentionally obstructive. _He’s not wrong. And not just about my injuries._

“Portier. Had a couple of his usual variety of henchmen. Nothing I couldn’t handle.” _Please let that be enough._

“Until…?” 

“Apparently he had one in reserve.” Phil sighed. Clearly, _this_ was the problem with reporting to someone who had known him so long. Even Phil’s poker face couldn’t withstand Fury’s all-seeing eye. “Mars should have hit him harder in Quito. Kept him from remembering that little lesson.”

“Injuries?” Phil could hear the click of a keyboard as Fury actually began to type up a report, and had one wild moment where he suddenly expected to be told to get it signed and bring it back the next day. It had been a common enough refrain in Phil’s high school years, although those were detention slips and not mission reports. Still, Phil had the uneasy deja vu of having his mind read by someone in charge and extremely disappointed in him.

“I’m _fine_ , Nick.” For a given definition of “fine,” of course. “Minor concussion. Needed a few stitches which were provided by a doctor contacted by my cover.”

“And you decided _not_ to go to an actual hospital because…?” The clicking paused.

“I had someone local to assist me?” Phil cringed at the questioning tone in his own voice, but he held his tongue, afraid that over-explaining would make everything worse.

There was another pregnant pause from New York. 

“So you, what? Got hit over the head with something hard, picked yourself up off the ground and ran to your little boytoy?” Fury sighed heavily. “Did you at any point lose consciousness?”

“A pair of civilians intervened while I was down.” Phil kept his words clipped, clinical. “My attackers fled the scene. Well, given the size of the two, I’m not surprised by that. ” Phil bit his lip, resting his elbow on the desktop and covering his face with his free hand, willing the other not to throw the phone across the room. “And Anton’s not my… He’s not… Er…”

“So they’re still out there somewhere.” Fury’s voice was tight, his frustration with Phil’s obstruction beginning to seep through. “Any lingering effects?”

“Nothing I won’t recover from, sir.” Phil brushed the tips of his fingers over the bandage on his temple. “Got my bell rung a bit. Slight headache, already fading.” _Might have pulled something while fucking Anton’s throat._

“Coulson, you know damned well I can tell when you’re hiding something.” Fury sighed. “What aren’t you telling me.”

“It’s nothing important, sir.” Phil opted for bland professionalism, trying very hard to ignore the shiver that went through him at the memory of Anton’s mouth against his neck, his chest, his... “No bearing on the op.” 

They both fell silent, trying to wait each other out. Fury broke first, but only because he’d clearly Figured Things Out.

“You fucked your cover.” Nick's voice was full of the inevitable disappointment, and Phil cringed.

“What?!” It came out as a squeak. “No! I mean… Not exactly. There was some… We kinda… _Shit._ ”

“Your cover fucked you.” Fury’s voice was going all tight again, and Phil found himself squinching his face up, trying to figure out a way out of this discussion that didn’t end with Phil saying the words “deep throat.” “When you were down with down with an injury. He just, what? Decided to tap that while you were compromised?”

“ _Nick!_ ” Phil could feel the blush burning hot on his cheeks, warming the tips of his ears. “No! It wasn’t... Not like that! Whoa. Back up! He… The first, er, advances were a surprise. Everything after that was not only clearly telegraphed but also, er, _enthusiastically endorsed_.”

“So we’re back to the fact that you fucked your cover.” Fury’s voice had lost the edge concern and was back to disappointed and slowly edging across the emotional map toward the shadows marked “Here Thar Be Dragons.” “So you get bumped on the head and end up scrambled enough to just take advantage of some kid who is too afraid to tell you go fuck yourself? You decide to say a grand fuck-it to the mission and your basic sense of decency and...”

“Hell no, sir!” Okay. Clearly, Phil was doing a poor job of explaining and needed to get this straightened out. Preferably before he was pulled from the mission. Or arrested by SHIELD’s security forces. “He’d made more than one pass at me before. And then I had clear reason to believe his enthusiastic and amorous response to me regaining consciousness was, in fact, genuine. And…” Well, no help for it now. Phil tried to keep his tone as devoid of emotion as he could while he rattled off the next part without taking a breath. “It’s been a remarkably long time since I’ve had any sexual contact with anyone, and Anton is particularly appealing to me in both appearance and personality.” Unfortunately, his voice decided to take the proffered freedom and Phil couldn’t bite back what came out next. “And his mouth is _extremely convincing_ when he quits speaking.”

“Goddamnit, Coulson!” Phil could hear Fury’s chair scrape as he shot to his feet on the other side of the Atlantic. “What the _Hell_ are you thinking! You’re supposed to be a goddamned _professional_ , not a thirteen year old with a crush and an uncontrollable boner. I can’t have you getting distracted enough to not notice when someone as shoddy as Portier is coming after you. What if it had happened when your boy was with you? You can’t be so wrapped up in mooning over him that you can’t protect him. He’s a _civilian_ , Coulson. You’re gonna get him killed.”

Phil choked, sputtered, and finally recovered enough to speak. “It’s not… it’s not like that. It was an adrenaline thing, sir. He was, er, _relieved_ that I was not permanently damaged, and also flattered that I had opted to go to him when injured. He decided to show his relief in a physical manner.” _Why couldn’t I have said that in the first place and avoided everything that came before._

“Gonna say this once, and I want you to listen.” Fury’s voice had dropped to the calm, threatening growl that made grown men wet their pants. “You keep your libido under control. Next time he’s offering, you aren’t accepting. Eyes on the prize, Coulson.”

“Yes, sir.” Phil sighed, wondering if Fury had any idea what he was asking; he was depressingly aware that Fury probably did. His next request would leave even fewer doubts, but Phil knew this was his chance to at least ease one layer of his own guilt. “Sir, as I won’t be marrying the young man in question, do you think that you could pull some strings to see about either getting his papers extended or get him to the US _without_ a husband? As a thank you for his unwitting assistance on this mission, of course.”

“Phil…” Fury started. Stopped. Took a deep breath. “Yeah, Coulson. I think we’ll be able to manage that.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s… thank you.” Phil disconnected the line, dropped the the phone on the desk, buried his face in his hands, and spoke aloud to the empty room. “I just had to tell my boss I got laid. Most fucked up mission ever. What the _hell_ am I even doing?”

____

 

All the warmth in the room, leftover from Phillip’s passion, his responsiveness, the unguarded words, leached away, and Clint was freezing. Brain slowing. Blood freezing. Lungs… not...

“Clint?” Nat’s voice drew him out of himself enough to take a breath, sucking in air to clear the spots from his eyes. He backed up carefully to sit on the edge of the bed, hands twisting together as he wracked his brain.

How had he missed the telltale roughness to Phillip’s finger, the base of his hand? Clint _knew_ those callouses! Nearly everyone he’d been with in the past fifteen years had owned a matching set. And, now that Nat had brought his attention to them, Clint was thinking of the tracing of thin white lines across Phillip’s skin: the healed knife wound along his hip, a pucker that might have been from a bullet that Clint’s lips had found for a moment before forgetting it in favor of something more interesting to wrap his mouth around. 

Clint’s hands didn’t shake. He would not _let_ them shake. But a tremor ran through his body before stopping at his wrists.

“The plans.” Clint wasn’t asking. If there was someone like that in Amsterdam “on business” right then, there was only one business he could possibly be involved with. The sale seemed to be chasing everyone off the sidelines. “You think he’s here for the plans.”

Nat slid from the chair to the bed to wrap her arms around Clint’s shoulders and bury her face against his neck. Clint tried not to compare her tight embrace to the way Phillip had clung to him that morning, tried not to think that Phillip had made him feel as safe, as treasured as Natasha did (although the physical results of their touch was _extremely_ different). 

“Маленький брат,” she whispered into his shoulder. “I am so, so sorry. I know you hoped…”

Clint gently pushed her away and stood up to resume his not-pacing. “I didn’t hope anything. I just thought that maybe...”

“Clint.” Her sharp tone yanked him out of his head, and he forced himself to focus on his breathing instead of on the words that had spilled from Phillip’s lips as Clint had worshiped his body. _In. Hold. Release._ Forget the half-spoken promises and praise that Clint had hoped, had started to believe, really meant something.

“I don’t know what I was thinking.” He sighed and ruffled his hands through his hair, unconsciously trying to shake off the feeling of Phillip’s fingers grabbing at the rumpled strands the night before. “I thought he…” He stopped himself before he could finish the thought. _No. Nat doesn’t need to hear how stupid I am._

“Oh, my brother.” She stood to slip her arms around his waist again, and this time he melted into her, pulling her head against his chest and pressing his face to her hair. “I know it will be painful, but you’re going to need to stick close to him. If he is…” She paused and pursed her lips thoughtfully. “If he is what I think him, perhaps he can lead us to the plans.”

_____

“So my business for the day is already finished.” Phil felt the little extra bump to his heartbeat when Anton answered his call a half-hour after hanging up on Fury’s ire. He’d typed up the report on the encounter with Portier, submitting it via secured line before deleting all traces of it from his laptop. “Are you free for lunch? Maybe the day?”

“I’m down here just for you.” Anton’s voice was a lazy drawl, and Phil wondered if he was still as relaxed and purry as Phil was feeling. “So whenever you’re ready…”

“I’ll be there in a quarter hour?” Phil couldn’t keep the eagerness out of his voice.

Phil checked his reflection in the mirror. His glasses annoyed him, but sleeping in his contacts, combined with the blow to the head he’d taken the day before, made anything _in_ his eyes out of the question. He wondered, briefly, if he should change shirts into something that was a little looser. But the knit was soft and well-worn, the alien logo for (supposedly) some band that Phil couldn’t recognize faded to near-invisibility from washing and wear more than age. He ran his hands over his torso, imagining the softness stretching over the swell of Anton’s chest, the ripples of the thick padding of muscle across Anton’s ribs. 

_Eh, this shirt’s fine._

Giving the room a once-over to be certain it was neat and secure, he scooped his keys and phone into his pocket, snagging his brown leather jacket off the back of a chair. His suit from the night before was delivered to the front desk to be cleaned-- _please don’t let the blood have set on the lapel_ \-- and stepped into the sun, slipping his sunglasses back as he set off toward the river and several uninterrupted hours with Anton.

___

Clint chased Natasha out of his room as soon as he’d disconnected the call with Phillip, giving himself time to put on real clothing and get back into character. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to go on being Phillip’s golden Russian boy with this new piece of information. But maybe…

Maybe Phillip _was_ in town for the plans, but maybe he really was looking for a… a _someone,_ too. Maybe meeting Anton wasn’t just cover. Maybe…

 _Shut the hell up, asshole,_ Clint told himself. _Just my luck to get the one guy looking for his own cover and then go and do something stupid like fucking_ fall _for him._

He tried to push down the tiny sliver of hope, but he couldn’t. Not entirely. He told himself a little wishing was okay. Needed it to stay in character, even. It didn’t actually _mean_ anything. 

He splashed water over his hair, trying to make it lie down from where he’d run his fingers through it over and over as it dried after Natasha had shown up and dropped her bombshell. There was a long hesitation before he managed to pull on a t-shirt, staring at the bite-shaped bruise on the meat of his shoulder. Looking at it in the mirror made the snarl in his gut loosen. For at least one long moment, tangled up so sweaty in the sheets, gasping together, moving together, Phillip _hadn’t_ been lying. And neither had Clint.

Clint was saved from sinking into highschool romance daydreams by a knock at the door, and he yanked the shirt over his head. He glanced in the mirror to confirm his smirk was Anton-appropriate, and he was ready to flip the lock and pull open the door. 

He needn’t have bothered with the smirk, as it fell off his face the instant he was confronted with Phillip, wearing that damned leather coat again. This time it was draped over the shirt Clint had sent him home in. That morning, Clint had admired the way the faded, stretched knit, washed thin, had clung to the ridges of muscle across Phillip’s shoulders, hugged the swell of Phillip’s chest. But this? Clint’s clothing paired with a jacket that showed off Phillip’s perfect ass to, well, to perfection, and the whole thing topped off with _aviators_? This was just _unfair_. Cruel, even. The whole thing was made worse by the warm, intimate little half-smile. 

“Hello.” Phillip’s smile grew, just a bit, as he slid the glasses off his nose, and Clint lost track of his own body somewhere between reaching forward to grab one edge of that fucking jacket and pressing Phillip’s back against the wall inside the room. Together they stumbled sideways off the step of the entry so Clint could kick the door shut, struggling to stay upright as Phillip attempted to tie their tongues into some sort of complicated knot. 

Phillip was the first to pull back with a graphic slurppop that was going into its own special file in Clint’s mental porn collection. 

“This is not going to get us to lunch.” Phillip’s usual little half-grin had turned into a full smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and Clint _needed_ to taste those lines. He stretched forward, reeling Phillip closer by his hips. Clint’s lips brushed at the sweep of eyelashes before settling at the corner of Phillip’s left eye. He lipped up Phillip’s temple, down the edge of his hairline until he could brush his tongue along the shell of Phillip’s ear.

The soft, breathy sounds of pleasure Clint got in return for his careful exploration unlocked more of the ice under his skin. He hummed and carefully continued, tracing his way down the side of Phillip’s neck, working his way up Phillip’s throat with tongue and soft nips of teeth. Phillip’s head fell back to thump against the bathroom door now behind his back granting Clint easier access to bite at the thin skin under his sharp jaw. The near-tremble in Clint’s hands eased as he slowly let his hands slide inside that jacket, explore Phillip’s chest, trace gently over the bruises that he knew still blackened his ribs. He could vaguely hear his own voice speaking, but he couldn’t be arsed to try to listen to what he was saying. One quick check to make certain that he was still speaking Russian and Clint let his mouth get on with its rambling while his hands kept up their careful exploration of every inch of Phillip’s torso.

 

Phil was melting under the fiery onslaught of Anton’s soft mouth and gentle touches. He clung, one hand clutching Anton’s shoulder, the other pressing fingerprint bruises into one of those massive biceps, as he desperately tried to stay on his feet. Anton pressed forward the last few inches, which kept Phil upright by pinning him to the door. The proximity of of Anton’s chest and hips, however, made Phil’s knees weaker still as _other_ parts of his body took notice. He tightened his grip and tried to keep from whining, trying to keep from drowning out the warmth, the affection in Anton’s voice.

It took Phil a shamefully long time to translate the words Anton was murmuring against his throat. When he finally understood, he whimpered again and clung harder.

“Perfection.” 

A kiss against his chin. 

“Beauty.” 

A small bite to the side of his neck.

“Handsome.” 

Another kiss to his throat.

“Mine.”

A sweep of tongue across his pulsepoint that left Phil panting. 

“Anton.” He lowered his head to capture one of those kisses for his lips. “God, I…” He rested their foreheads together, unable-- _unwilling_ to force Anton any further away. “I need a minute.” _Fuck, I need a lifetime._ “Just… wait.”

Phil got one last, far-too-gentle kiss before Anton stepped back, dragging the back of one hand over his wet, red lips. Phil forced his hands to stay at his sides where they’d fallen, rather than letting them climb back onto the glory of Anton’s body, drag him back in to kiss, to bite, to _devour_.

“We should… we should get that lunch.” Anton’s voice was rough, and he turned away, ducking his head shyly. “Didn’t actually get around to eating breakfast.”

“Yes,” Phil answered, reaching out to run one hand down the muscle that rippled under the back of Anton’s t-shirt. He took a deep, steadying breath and let his hand drop again. “Me either. I…”

Anton glanced over his shoulder, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You should take better care of yourself, with your bruises and your head injury.”

 _Do it for me,_ Phil didn’t say. He felt the blush crawl up his face in spite of his self-restraint. _Fuck you, Fury. And your fucking mission._ Phil knew he didn’t mean it: he was his job, an Agent of SHIELD to the end. Even when it was painful. 

“Lunch first, and then, if you’re feeling up to it, maybe you take me to see some of those sights you saw without me over the weekend?” Anton’s voice was quiet and rough.

“I’d like that.” Phil smiled when Anton stepped in front of him after grabbing his keycard off the desk. “Maybe we’ll find some new sights to see together.”

“Sounds perfect.” Phil closed the gap to indulge in one more public-inappropriate kiss before they went out for the day.

____

 

Clint spent the afternoon watching and listening. Trying, _failing_ \-- and telling himself he wasn’t grateful for the failure-- to catch Phillip in an obvious lie, searching for a chink in the armor of perfection that draped over his shoulders with the same tailoring as the gorgeoius suit he’d been wearing the night before. _Don’t think about that suit!_

Phillip talked about growing up in Chicago with his mother, going to college and then entering the workforce. The details were convincing. Halfway through the day, Clint forgot that it was an interrogation and started asking questions just because he wanted to know every detail he could get. 

_Don’t get attached_ , he told himself. And then Phillip blushed and ducked his head, embarrassed by an admission of his hooliganism as a teen, and Clint wished he could kick himself. _Okay, so don’t get any_ more _attached_.

As they walked back toward Clint’s room after supper, Phillip slid his fingers into Clint’s, and Clint stepped closer, letting their shoulders brush together. There was a nervous tension to their grip, silence falling as they neared the room where they’d fallen into each other in fear and adrenaline and relief the night before. The room where Clint had lost control of himself, forgetting to play a role when he found himself confronted with the physical manifestation of his idea of “perfection.” 

He still wasn’t entirely certain what had possessed him to throw Nat’s warnings and his own instincts aside and… and _assault_ Phillip with his tongue that morning. Something about seeing Phillip wearing Clint’s shirt, smiling like Clint was the most amazing thing Phillip’d ever seen had just knocked aside all of Clint’s history, his training, the lessons he’d learned the hard way. All Clint had known was that he had to get their mouths back together _right then._

The night before, he’d shown up on Clint’s doorstep looking for help and refuge, and in that moment this man, with his secrets written in scars on his skin, with his wicked, wicked mouth, and beautiful eyes had taken possession of whatever was left of Clint’s much-abused heart. All day, it had taken all of Clint’s self-control to keep from spilling his own secrets at Phillip’s feet, to beg for forgiveness and understanding. 

_Can’t think that way, Hawkeye. Gotta figure out who he is. Gotta pretend to be a professional._ And then Phillip squeezed their joined hands and smiled up through his lashes, and Clint gave up for the night. _Oh, I’m in trouble._

He sighed and rolled his eyes at himself, but he did lean a little harder into Phillip’s shoulder, letting his hand pull free from Phillip’s fingers to slide around his waist instead. Phillip’s arm came up to loop around Clint’s back, and Clint felt a line of tension leak out of Phillip’s body. A quick press of lips to the side of Clint’s neck nearly derailed his brain again, but he managed to restrain his urge to take advantage of a nearby wall, holding himself to a simple, quick press of lip on lip. 

_Maybe I can inoculate myself like this. Little touches. Keep from going overboard every time I see him._

Phillip’s hand trailed off Clint’s shoulder, sliding slowly, far-too-casually, until the fingers ended up tucked into Clint’s back pocket. Those fingers pressed in, possessively kneading the flesh of Clint’s ass, and Clint nearly swallowed his tongue.

_Or maybe not._

As they ambled up toward the door to the room, Clint thought of something that threw him out of his warm, sexually-charged fantasies. 

_Oh shit, I didn’t pack any condoms._

Clint wasn’t sure how to subtly sneak out to remedy the situation. He couldn’t actually leave Phillip _alone_ in the room, not with the small stash of handguns hiding under the edge of the mattress, taped under the desk, wedged behind the television. No. Not until Clint knew for certain who and what Phillip really was. And probably not even then, to be fair. And it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing Clint could ask Nat for help with, given her discomfort with the thought of him having sex with this guy. For all that she had seemed to be encouraging him to get closer, he knew _that_ wasn’t what she had in mind.

With a sigh, Clint gave up on the idea of sex, uncomfortably aware of having pushed his own boundaries by blowing Phillip bare the night before.

_Well, there are other things we can try._

“You’ll stay?” Clint leaned into Phillip’s chest, arms automatically reaching out to pull him closer. “You’ll stay with me tonight? Last night I...” He trailed off.

“Anton?” Phillip’s face scrunched in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Last night, you were injured, you weren’t thinking clearly, and I just…” Clint tucked in on himself as tightly as he could, trying to hide himself against Phillip’s broad shoulder.. “That was unfair to you. I would like another chance to…”

“Anton, look at me.” Phillip tightened his arms around Clint’s back. “Last night, my… reserves were lower, yes. But that was from the proximity of you, not from my injuries. It was… it was so good. So very, very good. I am very much looking forward to a repeat.”

“So you will stay?” Clint felt his heartbeat kick up a gear, fluttering against his ribs.

Phillip let out a sigh, loud and long and full of regret.

“I can’t.” He curled into Clint’s embrace, and Clint’s fingers dug into the leather of his jacket, trying to get them closer. “I want to. More than you can begin to imagine. But… I have an early morning phone call. I _have_ to be there for it. Be awake for it. And…”

“No. I would not let you sleep much.” Clint pulled him in for a kiss before grinning, letting his usual flirty bravado disguise his disappointment. “I find you irresistible.”

“Call me? When you wake up?” Phillip’s voice had shrunk to something lost and sad, and Clint wanted to open the door and drag him through it, make him stop sounding like that. Phillip was _not_ supposed to sound small or sad. 

_Shut up, Clint_ , he told himself. _You sound like an idiot_

“I will. First thing. I…” He stopped himself from finishing that sentence by catching Phillip’s lips for one last, lingering kiss. “I will talk to you in the morning and see you-- maybe?-- for lunch.”

Phillip nodded and drew away slowly, palms lingering on Clint’s ribs, gaze clinging to Clint’s lips.

“Dream of good things,” he said softly as he turned at last to walk away. 

_I’d rather have you than dream of you._ Clint pretended he wasn’t even thinking it as he opened the door to his room. _Rather have the taste of you, the heat of you, the…_ you _of you._

___

 

As soon as he saw Anton’s door click shut behind him, Phil reached down to remove his pistol from his ankle holster. This was the primary reason he couldn’t possibly stay with Anton for the night. How was he supposed to dispose of weapon and holster without being obvious? There was nowhere to stash it in the micro bathroom the room was equipped with, and he couldn’t be certain that Anton would go in there long enough for Phil to get the whole mess shoved under the edge of the mattress. Even if he managed to hide it for the night, there was no guarantee that Phil would be able to collect it the next morning without being observed. 

Walking quickly, Phil got himself safely back to his own hotel, gun tucked into his palm, hidden in his jacket pocket. He wasn’t chancing a repeat of the previous night’s attack. And he wasn’t going to allow _anything_ to get between him and his evening shower. 

_Goddamned, cockblocking, asking-for-shit-I-can’t-promise bosses!_

He nearly sprinted from the elevator to his room, shedding clothing as he made his way from the room door to the en suite.

Four minutes later, he was laughing wryly as he toweled water out his hair: that clearly had been Guinness record material for shortest shower that involved an orgasm. Not that Phil thought he could repeat the performance with a judge there. Unless Anton was the judge, of course. In which case, Phil would really hope the whole process would take a little bit longer. And maybe include a bit of audience participation.

 _Go to bed, Phil. You’ve gone goofy._

____

 

Without Nat there, Clint slept in his hearing aides. He’d be paying for doing it two nights in a row, but there wasn’t another choice, given that Nat had answered his call after Phillip’s departure with a grunt, hummed noncommittally at every question Clint had asked, and ignored any statement he made. He finally let her go back to sleep and resigned himself to sleeping alone. The upside was that he got to take his time in the shower. The downside was that solo orgasms didn’t hold a candle to orgasms dragged out of him by Phillip’s talented hands. He rolled himself in the blankets afterward, hair soaking his pillow, determined to take some time forcing himself into rationality before he went to sleep. 

His brain made it as far as _I didn’t know anyone could taste that good when just_ kissing _them_ , and then he was out for the night.

The door to Clint’s room swung open, letting in a spill of sunlight and a human-shaped blur, and Clint nearly shot out of the bed before he registered the red flash of Nat’s hair. She smirked at him, holding up two paper cups of coffee. Clint thought she’d never looked so beautiful, even with her head twisted strangely to the side to hold her phone on her shoulder. But it might have been that an offering of caffeine was simply the perfect accessory. 

“So there’re going to be _legitimate_ businessmen involved in this fiasco, too?” She set one coffee on the nightstand and pressed the other into Clint’s hands. “How does that even work?” She huffed a sigh. “Yes, I’m aware of corporate espionage. I’ve been hired for enough of it. But this is…” She rolled her eyes. “So why is SHIELD involved, then? And do you have any more leads on this agent?” Her eyes sharpened as she fixed them on a blank spot on the wall beneath an incongruous picture of eggs and milk. 

Clint secretly fantasized that print had been stolen from a cheap restaurant by a previous guest, as it didn’t remotely go with the more expected picture of tulips on the same wall; he wondered where the original picture had ended up, if it was also a victim of faux-art swapping. The first time he’d stayed in the room, he’d rested with his feet on the headboard, head at the wrong end of the bed, staring at the eggs. He created an elaborate fantasy about someone hopping around Europe, snagging artwork of questionable taste from hotels, rooming houses, and restaurants, posters out of rail stations and advertising from stores and swapping it out with something at their next stop. Nat, when he’d described the whole thing to her, had just given him a _look_ and said, “Clint, no.”

Her voice snapped him out of his rebuilt imaginary world of faux-art theft. “Interesting. Well, find out what you can. We’re going to head back to Amsterdam tomorrow morning. I’ll have another assignment for you soon.” She smiled, cool and wicked. “It’ll be _very_ worth your time. I want… I can hold.” A beat. “Fine, I…”

Nat blinked and looked at her phone, affronted. “They got another call and hung up on me.”

“‘They?’” Clint asked, he was starting to feel a bit more alive with half his coffee in him. 

“Waarzegster,” Nat clarified. “Apparently there has been a sudden surge in legitimate businessmen, mostly tech and weapons designers, in Amsterdam. Ian Quinn sent someone to scope the layout. Even Pepper Potts is there, representing Stark Industries, although there’s no indication that she’s actually involved with the whole mess. Still, it’s suspicious.”

“Nuh-uh.” Clint downed the last of his coffee and made a face at the grounds lingering in the bottom of the cup. “There is no way someone as slimy as Quinn can be mentioned in a sentence with the phrase ‘legitimate businessmen.’ Unless you put the words ‘not including’ in that sentence.”

“I’m not sure what you said made any sense.” Nat’s mouth twisted as she scrunched her face in disgust. “But you’re right, anyway.”

“Could Potts have recognized you from that internship you did at SI?” Clint stretched, his words blurring slightly as he flexed his back, arms reaching up and back until his sternum popped. “Would that have been who made you?”

“Mmm.” Nat’s hum was thoughtful. “Unlikely. First, I’m not sure she’d recognize me, since I was a very plain blonde at that time. Plus she would have no reason to connect the name I used then to the Black Widow. Only time I’ve ever used that alias. And I’d have likely noticed her before she could have seen me. She’s a rather striking woman. Stands out in a crowd.”

“So we’re heading back tomorrow?” Clint finally dragged himself off the bed and started digging through his duffle for clean jeans. “Only have the room through this morning.”

“Good.” Nat answered. She sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “Well, ‘good’ if Phillip is also staying in town another night. You tell him that your sister has company tonight and you can’t go home. You _have_ to find a way to get into his room overnight. Here or in Amsterdam. When he’s asleep, you should be able to dig around and see if you can figure out anything about him. Find out who he’s working for, at least.”

Clint nodded slowly. He could do that. A Night in Phillip’s Room (Bed... Arms...).

 _There’s no way I can do that._ Clint huffed a sigh. _How’m I supposed to stay awake after wearing_ him _out_

“Meanwhile,” Natasha continued, unaware of Clint’s dilemma, “we have a name for the SHIELD agent, and I have an idea. We’re going to set up a meet with this Agent Coulson through ‘Zeg. Let’s see if we can convince him to work with us so we can retrieve those plans with some serious firepower to back us up. It’d be a pleasant change to _officially_ be working with the good guys for once.”

___

“Good morning, Agent Coulson.” Zeg’s voice was again glazed with amused superiority. “We were just getting ready to call _you_ after we had finished our previous call. The man who was searching for you apparently found your current whereabouts through hacking into a train station’s security cameras and seeing you boarding for Rotterdam. We have the identity of this man now.”

“Yeah,” Phil answered dryly. “So do I. Already ran into him and a few of his friends.”

“That explains why he was pulled, then.” There was a grudging sort of admiration in Zeg’s voice. “We have heard about the rocks that are the hands of Agent Coulson. He apparently developed a bit of a breathing problem from a rather _nasty_ nose-break.”

Phil allowed himself to be smugly pleased for just a moment before he shook himself back to the present. “Enough about incidentals. Have you found anything on the security team or the current whereabouts of the missing plans?”

“Ah, yes. The security team. Curious thing there.” There was a pause, and Phil braced himself the coming grand oration. “We found that they followed the plans to Russia where they, plans and mercenaries both, dropped off the map for several months. There is a rumor, and only a rumor mind you, that a former Soviet spy was temporarily captured by a new radical organization that appears to be made up of mostly other former Soviet spies. We do not know that these two events are connected, but the plans were not mentioned again for several months, reappearing in Eastern Europe only _much_ later. The mercenaries… well, that part is stranger still. They were pursued out of Russia by several organizations working in tandem, chased across half of Europe by all accounts. And now… now no one is entirely certain where they can be found.”

“You know who these mercs are.” Phil was not asking. He had nothing to go on except instinct and something small in Zeg’s voice that was triggering an alert. 

“Mmm.” Zeg’s pleased hum rippled across the phone connection, and Phil knew he’d scored a point with them. “We are afraid we cannot answer that. But, Agent Coulson, if this team is half what they are reported to be, and if this team is after the plans, you will not want to-- what is the phrase?-- be caught by the crossfire.”

Phil snorted, but didn’t press the issue. He’d learned from the rather comprehensive file Jasper had sent over that, once bought, Waarzegster _stayed_ bought, and Phil was starting to have suspicions as to who else had currently paid for ‘Zeg’s loyalty. 

“So can you confirm the rumor that the sale is to take place at a reception for introduction services?” 

“Ah! SHIELD isn’t as behind as they appear!” Zeg sounded pleased. “Very good, Agent Coulson.”

“I had that information before I left home.” Phil tried to keep himself from answering, but he couldn’t let the slight on his organization go without comment.

“So you have a bride?” Their voice was wheedling. “You have a cover to enter the reception?”

Another question Phil was not going to answer. “Is that where the auction is happening?”

“It is where things will begin.” They gave a polite little cough and hummed thoughtfully. “We have, of course, been invited. But we will need a bride or groom.”

 _Interesting._ Was Waarzegster just trying to get their own hands on the weapon? Why? They’d never dealt in arms trade before, although there was a rumor of a past spent as remarkably successful mercenary in their own right.

“If I hear of any available, I will be certain to let you know,” Phil answered dryly before disconnecting the call. Five minutes later, he was on the line to SHIELD, checking his watch to see if Mars or Jas was on duty.

“Hullo, Coulson.” The answering voice didn’t belong to either of them. “Agent Melinda May here.”

 _Guess this means Fury forgave Jasper. Wonder how he managed_ that _so soon._

Phil quickly outlined what he’d learned of the security team’s travels and told May to cross-reference with their own intel from the last year, hoping for a hit that would give them a clue to identities. He then requested that he be sent an update from Dutch Intelligence regarding the latest spies, weapon developers, and terrorist organizations that had shown up in Amsterdam during his unexpected vacation.

“So you’re going to be in Rotterdam another night, then?” May sounded amused. “Is your bride going to be hanging around for you, too?”

 _Anton_. He was supposed to have been on a train out of the city that morning. _Damn_. Phil would later blame lingering effects of his concussion when he hung up without another word to dial Anton’s number.

____

 

“Good morning.” The growled purr over the phone made Clint shiver. _He’s a mark, probably a liar, definitely a target,_ Clint told himself. _He’s also the kindest, most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. I’m so screwed._

“Good morning, handsome.” He climbed out of his chair and headed for the door to the cafe, knowing he didn’t want to have this conversation across a table from Natasha. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not as well as the night before.” Phillip’s answer was small and painfully honest, and Clint tried to tame the swoop in his stomach. “You’re probably on your way back to Amsterdam, aren’t you.”

“No.” Clint’s voice hitched on the word. “I’m… I’m still eating breakfast, actually. Here. In Rotterdam.”

“When do you have to be back?”

A quick glance through the window showed Natasha staring off into the distance, body relaxed and face aloof. Well, she wanted Clint to snoop around Phillip’s room. No time like the present.

“Actually…” Clint took a deep breath. “My sister told me not to come home yet. She’s having an overnight guest.”

“So.” Phillip took an audible breath and swallowed hard. “So you need somewhere to be for tonight, then?”

Clint nodded, knowing Phillip couldn’t see him but unable to get any sounds to squeeze past the lump in his throat. 

“Then you could, maybe, stay with me? Here?” There was another gulp. “I am stuck in town one more night, but, if I get the go-ahead from work tonight or in the morning, I’ll be on an early train back to Amsterdam. You could… ride back with me?”

“I’d like that very much.” Clint didn’t know why his throat had gone so dry. “We’ll meet for lunch?”

“Perfect.” Clint tried to dismiss the strange idea that Phillip was speaking of more than their plans.

After disconnecting the call, Clint rushed in to grab Nat from her seat, his duffle bag from the floor, his backpack from the back of the chair, and hustle them all back outside. Nat had shaken his hand off her arm, collected her own suitcase, and followed him sedately. Clint dragged her to a space partially hidden by a bike rack and unzipped his duffle.

“So you’ll have your phone on you at all times, yes?” Nat watched Clint dig through his bag, yanking out guns, ammunition, knives, and various other bobs and bits that he kept for work. He dumped it all in the top of her open suitcase, and she hoped no one around them was paying much attention, since Clint seemed more determined to get to his date than to follow basic security protocols.

“Of course. I’m not new.” He checked the knives hidden in the straps, slid one very small pistol back into a fold in the lining of the duffle and zipped the whole thing shut. “And you will _not_ go back to Amsterdam without me there to watch your back, right?”

“I won’t go anywhere that it is not safe for me to be.” She was going to Amsterdam. But not back to their rooms. She had set up the meeting with Waarzegster, and she planned on hitting a few clubs to make contact with a few other semi-trusted associates. It was time to get this mission _moving_ again.

“Natasha.” Clint clearly guessed what she wasn’t saying, and his face had gone scrunchy.

“I’m sorry to leave you on your own down here.” She reached up to ruffle his spikes; his hair was getting a bit longer than he usually liked it, but it was such a good look on him. “But you can handle this. If he got beaten that badly and then ran to you, there’s likely only one of him here. You can handle one man.”

“That’s not it and you… Dammit, Nat.” Clint leaned over and kissed her on the temple, winding his fingers into her hair. She accepted his embrace, leaning into the wall of his chest. “I worry about you. Especially after what happened in Smolensk.”

Nat jerked away. “Clint, don’t. We agreed not to talk about my mistakes again.”

“Fine. Fine, whatever. Just… stay safe.” Clint dropped another quick kiss on her hair before he slung his bag over his shoulder and sauntered away, stride loose and relaxed, broad shoulders easily squared, looking for all the world like he truly was on the way to meet a _real_ boyfriend. 

_You are such a fool, brother-mine._ Nat sighed heavily and scooped up her suitcase and the backpack full of spy toys before heading off to collect the car she had arranged to rent. Getting back into Amsterdam unseen was going to take a little effort, and she was looking forward to the workout.

____

Anton stopped under a streetlight and tugged at Phil’s hand, drawing him in for a kiss. It was easy to melt into it, let his palm cup the sharpness of Anton’s jaw, the fingers of his other hand tighten around the back of his neck. He let his tongue brush the pouty fullness of Anton’s lower lip, revelling in the soft whimper it coaxed from both of them. They pulled apart slowly.

It had been their best day together yet, with Anton telling circus stories, animated and glowing, hands waving and eyes sparkling. Phil couldn’t drag his eyes away, and he found himself talking about some of his travels, hoping he wasn’t spilling too much about the places he’d seen and the people he had met. But he wanted Anton to know him, to _see_ him. To care about him. 

_I’m fucked._ He brushed his lips across Anton’s once more before turning away and stepping back.

“You’ll stay with me tonight?” Phil asked, linking their fingers again and continuing down the street. “I mean… I don’t mean…”

“I’m looking forward to spending the night with you.” Phil’s pulse kicked up another notch when Anton pulled his hand free to loop it around Phil’s waist. 

_At least I’m not missing out on my cardio,_ he thought whimsically.

“For sleep.” Phil clarified as he suddenly found himself picturing a different kind of _cardio workout_. “I don’t expect… I don’t want…” He had to get this stammering under control. And the blush that he knew was going with it. _I am not fourteen and trying to get to second base. I am not fourteen and trying to get to second base._ He chanted the words over and over in his mind, hoping to make himself believe them.

“Phillip.” Anton stopped again and pulled Phil into a brief, hot kiss. “I know you don’t _expect_ anything from me. But anything you want, you may have.”

“Just to have you near me.” Phil tried to focus on Anton’s eyes in the dim light. “That’s… I want you with me.”

“That’s exactly where I want to be,” Anton replied. “ _This_ is where I want to be.”

 _Fuck you, Nick._ Phil wanted. Oh, _God_ how he wanted. _Why can’t I keep my eyes right where they are, since I can’t seem to find the damned plans yet anyway?_

____

Clint sat on the foot of the bed and watched Phillip strip down to his t-shirt and boxers, so aroused by the sudden appearance of Phillip’s muscled legs that he was certain he felt his eyes dilate. The first he was aware of having a made a sound was when Phillip turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised questioningly. Clint tried to smile, but Phillip didn’t look reassured. 

“If this is too much, I can go ask for a separate room.” He crossed the room to cup Clint’s jaw in one massive palm. It was a gesture that was becoming much too familiar, much too comforting, but Clint couldn’t resist leaning into the touch. “We don’t _have_ to...”

“And miss out on one minute of this?” Clint asked quietly, reaching up to rest both palms against Phillip’s broad chest. “When we are back in Amsterdam, I will have my work to do, and our time will be limited.” _And our expiration date is nearing,_ he didn’t add. “So I will stay tonight.”

They slid underneath the covers together, and Clint, without conscious thought, rolled his back into Phillip’s chest, tucking himself into Phillip’s arms and letting his body go lax. He felt Phillip kiss the back of his neck and snuggled deeper into the covers and Phillip’s embrace. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Phillip whispered in English. “Gorgeous, and perfect, and I wish I could keep you.”

Clint tried to ignore the sudden sharp pain under his ribcage, catching one of Phillip’s hands and pulling it to his lips, kissing the knuckles to keep himself from answering aloud.

_You can. You have me. Fuck, that’s what I want, too._

He blinked back tears, trying to stay relaxed, trying to let Phillip drift off against his back. Just a few more minutes and he’d slip out of bed to give the room a quick check. Look in the bags, dig around the bathroom. Just another few breaths and Clint would get back to his _job_. Just… give him a minute… to enjoy this. He shifted his legs to let one of Phillip’s knees slip between his thighs. Just need to make sure he’s all the way asleep...

 

The glow from the morning sun was blinding when Clint opened his eyes, so he closed them again and rolled to nuzzle into the warmth occupying the other side of the bed. The dry press of lips to his forehead jerked him rudely back to full wakefulness. 

_Shit. Mission failed._

“Good morning.” Phillip’s hoarse greeting was accompanied by another kiss, this one rubbed into Clint’s hair. “I hope you slept even half as well as I did.”

 _No use worrying about it now,_ Clint decided, scootching further down into the bed and wrapping one arm around Phillip’s ribs to pull their bodies closer together. He buried his nose against Phillip’s chest, inhaling the sweat and musk and _warm_ smell of his t-shirt. 

“Good morning.” He shifted to get his elbow out of Phillip’s stomach; that couldn’t be comfortable. “How long until we have to get out of this bed?”

“Not nearly long enough for anything you’re thinking about.” Phillip’s voice sounded amused, but his arm tightened around Clint’s shoulder, fingers petting the back of his neck. “I have to shower, eat, and be on a train very soon.” Clint grumbled and tried to wiggling closer, even though there was no room left between them. “You’re coming with me?”

“Of course.” Clint sighed when Phillip rolled free and then choked when Phillip kicked the covers off before stretching. _That_ was a sight he could get used to seeing. 

“I’m taking first shower, then. You can stay there until I’m done.” Phillip leaned back for a brief kiss and then rose to collect his overnight bag and head into the bathroom. He paused at the door, blushing pink as he shyly spoke over his shoulder. “I like the way you look in my bed.”

Clint snagged his phone as soon as the water started, standing up and stretching as it connected. 

“What?” Nat’s voice was sleep-thick and crabby when she answered.

“Didn’t get to look ‘round his room while he was sleeping.” He spoke in English, keeping a careful ear out for changes in the sound of the water on the tile to hear that Phillip was still under the flow. “We’re heading back up shortly.” He poked around the room. “Not finding anything suspicious here, but he took his bag in the bathroom with him, so I can’t tell if he’s hiding anything in there.”

“Did you at least get some last night?” Out-too-late Nat was a snippy Nat. “Or is he still saving himself for marriage?”

“None of your damn business.” Clint took the phone off his shoulder to scowl at it briefly. “But no. We just slept.”

“Good, but see if you can get inside his damned room when you get back to Amsterdam. We _need_ some answers.” She hung up without waiting for a reply. Clearly, her night hadn’t been terribly productive, either.

By the time Phillip came out of his shower, Clint had himself tucked back under the covers on the bed and was playing a bubble shooter game, amusing himself by bouncing each shot off of both walls at least twice before they landed precisely where he wanted each one.

____

 

Breakfast and the train ride to Amsterdam would go down in Phil’s file of “Really Ugly Torture to Which I’ve Been Subjected.” Well, maybe not, because that file lived in his desk in New York, and there were a bunch of spies in that building who might get their hands on it. And no one needed to know that Phil spent the entire morning quivering, biting back whimpers, and occasionally outright trembling when Anton touched his neck, his thigh, his back. When Anton had dropped his cufflinks into his hand-- “You left these beside my bed,” Anton has murmured, lips brushing against Phil’s neck-- and stroked his fingers suggestively across his palm, Phil thought he’d collapse. And it was much, _much_ worse when they were sitting on the train, and Anton began sneaking tiny brushes of his fingertips along Phil’s _inseam_. 

_Only a matter of time before I break,_ Phil thought, biting his lip and shifting to ease the constriction of his jeans. But would breaking be such a terrible thing? It seemed like, since that cinematic moment in the airport, when all the air had gone out of Phil’s lungs, all he’d thought about was this gorgeous golden boy. He couldn’t keep his mind on the mission, on his duties as an Agent of SHIELD, on the fact that he was nearly old enough to be Anton’s _dad_. Maybe… Maybe it was time to give in. Release the gasket and blow off some steam, ease a little of the pressure. _Would that be taking advantage? Would that be allowing myself to become distracted? Because I know I’d be much_ less _distracted if I wasn’t half hard all the damned time!_

With one last desperate hope at self-justification, Phil reminded himself that he at least wasn’t wasting Anton’s time anymore. Anton soon wouldn’t need a husband to get himself to the US, where he could finally pursue all the big dreams he seemed to have. 

_And maybe he’ll live close enough that I can see him again. If he ever forgives me. And if he doesn’t find someone with 18 years fewer than I have. And half again as much hair._

Anton leaned close, as if to whisper something to Phil. Instead of soft, warm breath against his ear, however, Phil felt the sharp sting of teeth latching onto the lobe. And that was _it_. Public be damned, Phil turned to catch Anton’s mouth in a bruising kiss, full of promise. Ignoring this wasn’t helping any. Time to try burning it from his system. 

“да.” Phil jerked back far enough to speak. “As soon as we get back to Amsterdam.”

Anton’s smirk dropped completely off his face, leaving his expression blank for one long breath, and then a bright, fully-happy smile began to build at the edges of his lips. Between one blink and the next, Anton’s face went from pleased to blissful, and Phil couldn’t resist tasting the brilliance of that smile.

___

Time stopped for Clint with Phillip’s “yes,” the next two hours coming only in flashes, frozen images and impressions that burned themselves into Clint’s memory. 

_This is for the mission_ , he told himself as Phillip’s mouth covered his own on the train, hot and wet and full of intentions. 

_Only for the mission_. Phillip put Clint in the cab and then dropped in to drape along his side, lipping along the side of Clint’s neck, one hand curled possessively around Clint’s shoulder, the other clutching bruises into Clint’s thigh. 

_Mission!_ Clint’s back was pressed to a hotel room door while Phillip fumbled for the key and panted burning breaths against Clint’s collarbone.

 _Doing it to further the mission._ Arching against the inside of the door as Phillip peeled him out of his shirt, riding the thigh Phillip had pressed between his legs.

A trail of clothing from the door to the bed, the ignored buzzing of a phone somewhere in the room, the slide of sweat-slicked skin, sharp teeth and soft tongues. _Just part of the mission._

Then, as Phillip lined up to breach Clint’s body, as Clint pulled him in with arms and legs and lips, Clint thought, _I need this more than air._

They twisted together on the sheets, clutching hands pulling up corners, kicking pillows and the duvet aside. Clint swung his leg over Phillip’s hips, back and neck straining as he sank down. _I hope he_ is _an operative. Maybe he could join us._

On his knees, Phillip’s chest slipping against Clint’s back, Clint started to silently beg, praying none of the words spilled from his lips. _Please let me keep him. Just let me keep him a little bit longer._

After that, he tried not thinking, fluidly moving where directed, feeling Phillip moving behind, around him, _in_ him. 

“There! Fuck yes! You feel so fucking good!” Phillip shoved Clint’s chest down to the mattress, fingers scrabbling for a grip as his mouth started running away in English. He was loud enough to drown out the vibration of the phone that had slid out of the pocket of a pair of discarded jeans. “Holy fuck, you’re perfect! God, Anton, so fucking tight!” Words slurred away into wordless shouts, growls, gasps, higher functions going offline.

A rattle from across the room tried to interrupt, but Phillip didn’t hesitate and Clint couldn’t focus on anything but the pressure building in his gut. One broad hand trailed down the side of Clint’s back to cup his hip and change the angle while the other curved underneath to make a hot, slick channel for Clint to fuck into on each forward thrust. The shift immediately knocked all thoughts of buzzing phones and ominously-meaningful rattles out of Clint’s head as his body took off without his conscious direction, dragging both Phillip and himself over the edge. 

Before their breathing had even begun to slow, a strange voice from the doorway interrupted their post-orgasmic collapse.

“So, uh, Phil, I take it this is the lucky man?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::whew:: That was a long one. Sorry, the next chapter won't be as epic in length. HOWEVER...
> 
>  **Next Week, in Male Order Bride** : Reunited, and it feels like I'm being yelled at for doing exactly what you told me to do; Throw your hands in the air, wave 'em like you just don't care, but you should really pay attention to who is watching you; How d'you do, I see you've met my faithful secret agent man.
> 
> (bonus points to anyone who gets the song references without googling. I have faith in all of you)
> 
> Beta J was a LIFESAVER this week, and it's her fault (to her credit) that this chapter just. kept. going. But there was a LOT to organize in it, because the action starts to pick up next week. And she made damned sure we're ready for what comes next. Kathar and Selana were both tied up this week (K with a vacation with her family and S with GISHWES and the creation of beauty, humor, and Good), and Beta J agreed to step in and save you all from a giant jumble of "Fae, use your words." 
> 
> Everyone say "Thank you, Beta J!"
> 
> (note to anyone rereading here: I messed up the html tags when I first posted this. WHOOPS! Stupid backslash, hiding from me! Should be fixed now)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Apologies for the interruption. We were in the neighborhood.”

___

 

“Jasper. Maria.” Phil’s voice was scratchy, and he cleared his throat, trying to find some semblance of professionalism. “This is… quite a surprise.” He slowly lowered his chest to the sweat-gleaming back beneath him. His fingers reluctantly unclenched from their grip on Anton’s shoulder and hip, and he stuffed his hands under the muscular bulk of Anton’s chest. He wasn’t sure if the embrace was meant to offer reassurance or to take some comfort for himself. “Little busy.”

“Phil.” Maria stood just inside the room wearing a boring black suit and an excess of amusement. “Apologies for the interruption. We were in the neighborhood.”

“Hey, man.” Jasper was outright grinning. “I’m way more shocked than you are. From out there it sounded like you were, er, having difficulties.”

Phil ignored him, gripping the tattered remains of his self-control to keep from storming across the room and feeding Jasper his own necktie. He kept his eyes on Maria, who was clearly trying (and failing) to keep from ogling Anton’s exposed flanks. Phil snagged a pillow to provide a bit of modesty.

“I’d stand up to greet you but…” He wriggled his hips illustratively, forcing an overstimulated hiss and involuntary clench from Anton. Phil swallowed his own whine as he battered down both the urge to rock into that heat one more time and the blush that was certainly staining his own cheeks. “Hall. Both of you. Now.” 

He glared until they turned away to comply. As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Phil pulled out slowly and tenderly turned Anton into his arms. 

“I am so sorry,” he whispered in Russian. “Are you okay? They… I wasn’t expecting them. Have no idea why they’re here.”

“What’s going on?” Anton’s hands stroked through the hair on Phil’s chest, and Phil felt a renewed stab of anger toward Jasper. First he fucked up the paperwork and now he was screwing up the one good part of the whole fiasco. Phil wanted his lazy recovery and pillow talk, dammit! “Who were they? Why… _How_ did they just come bursting in?”

“I thought they were friends of mine, but right now I’m not so sure. Why don’t you go start the shower while I talk to them.” Phil gently kissed the bitten-red pout of Anton’s perfect bottom lip. “I’ll try to be quick, and then I’ll join you?”

Anton stretched, muscles rippling and skin sliding erotically against Phil's chest and thighs, before slipping out of Phil’s arms and out of the bed. He prowled toward the bathroom door, beautifully naked and graceful in his loose-limbed relaxation. “Hurry,” he called over his shoulder with a tentative smile and uncertain eyes before stepping into the small room and securely closing the door.

Phil peeled off the condom and dropped it in the trash before pawing through the scattered clothing on the floor for a pair of boxers. He sat at the desk for a long moment, face in his hands, listening to the shower running and trying to compose himself enough to face his coworkers and best friends. His heart was still thumping in his chest, but he wasn’t sure if it was from adrenaline from the unwelcome interruption, or if it was a lingering effect of what had been a genuinely mind-blowing orgasm. Sucking in a deep breath, Phil pressed a hand to his bare chest, trying to figure out how to tackle the confrontation. 

Was amusement or anger the right reaction? Or maybe he should lean toward mortification. Then again, if they hadn’t been able to tell the difference between the sounds of fighting and fucking, well that made their eyeful their own fault. Granted, it _had_ been exceptional sex. As no one had seen fit to alert Phil to incoming agents, he’d had no reason to hold back. Not that he would have been able to keep himself in check, once he had that golden skin spread out across his bed. And Anton certainly hadn’t tried to stifle himself. Just the memory of the sounds that Phil had been able to coax out with his hands, his mouth, his… 

_Jasper and Maria are here, in Amsterdam, just outside the door. Get a grip, Phil._

Shoving himself quickly to his feet, Phil stormed across the room and ripped the door open to find Maria and Jasper both leaning on the opposite wall, hands shoved in their pockets as they waited. 

He fixed Jas with his angriest glare, certain he lacked any level of intimidation in his naked, sweaty state. “Most people, when they walk in on someone fucking, know to _come back later_. Was it my skills in bed or the sight of my naked ass that had you hypnotized?”

“What can I say? Seeing your O face was like watching a trainwreck.” Jasper scowled, scrunching his face up tightly. “Horrifying, possibly deadly, and impossible to look away from.”

Phil gave Jasper a quelling look that would have been more effective had it not been for the heat he could feel coloring his cheeks and spilling down his bare shoulders and chest. Maria pushed her way into the room, tugging Jasper behind her by his arm. Phil walked back to the desk chair to sit, crossing his legs self-consciously. Over the course of missions and illnesses and weekends at his apartment, Jasper and Maria had seen him in various states of undress hundreds of times. This time, however, the purpling bruise that throbbed at the base of his throat and the fingernail welts across his shoulders and biceps made him feel much more _exposed._

“So… I take it things are going well with your guy, even though the mission is dragging its feet?” Maria began to sit on the bed, grimaced at the sheets, and moved to shoo Phil out of the chair so she could claim it. “At least…” She grinned. “You certainly appeared to be _into it._ ”

Phil slapped his hands back over his face and groaned, and Jasper let out a bark of laughter.

“That isn’t what it looked like.” Phil snagged the duvet off the floor and flipped it over the mess on the sheets before perching himself on the corner of the bed. He glanced down in a hopefully-discreet manner to check the status of the button on his fly. _Closed, thank God._

Jasper leered. “So you weren’t trying to drive the boy through the mattress with nothing but your...’” 

“Okay, yes. That part _was_ what it looked like.” Phil felt his face heat up again. He _really_ needed to get the blushing under control. “But it wasn’t… I wasn’t…”

“What it looks like from where I’m standing is that you failed to answer your damn phone all morning, and then, when we get here, we hear screaming and shouting from your room.” Jasper tried to keep a straight face, but his dimple was showing. “Clearly, the only reason for you to be shouting _on a mission_ is if someone is trying to kill you. So we pick the lock and burst in only to be greeted with your O face. That is _not_ something I wanted to see. There isn’t enough gin in the world to get that image out of my head! Seriously, man. Sock on the doorknob. Do not disturb sign. Blanket over your bare ass. _Anything_!”

“What are you both doing here, anyway?” Phil scrubbed his hands over his hair, desperately trying to erase Jasper saying “O face” from his memory. It didn’t work. Might never work. “Other than interrupting the first good-- no, great-- _great_ sex I’ve had in a decade? Not that I’m not glad to see you, but your timing sucks.”

“I dunno,” Jasper began thoughtfully. “We made it in plenty of time for the--”

“Boys.” Maria gave them both a quelling look before answering Phil’s question. “You got made, beaten to hell-- And ouch! Your ribs look like shit-- and only have one person we trust watching your back. So Fury sent us. Good thing, too, since you seem a little, er, wrapped up at the moment.”

“I hope he wrapped it,” Jasper murmured to no one in particular. Phil pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache unrelated to the bandage on his forehead beginning behind his eyes.

“Jas.” Maria shook her head. “If you want to paint nails and braid hair later, well, you’ll both have to find some hair first. But, for now, no details. I saw quite enough.”

“Seriously, Phil. You were so wrapped up in him that you didn’t hear Mars’ clumsy work on the doorknob.” Jasper’s smile dropped away, replaced by genuine concern. “You never get that lost when you’re on a mission. What were you thinking?”

“Right now I’m thinking that you’ve given my cover one helluva blow.” Phil scowled. “I’m not entirely certain how to explain why my coworkers flew all the way across the ocean _just_ to… to _cockblock_ me. From someone I’m supposed to be considering marrying.”

Maria rose, nodding sharply. “Okay. Fair point. You do damage control with your _boy_ , and we’ll all meet for supper tonight. _Without_ this Anton, so we can figure out where to go from here.” She paused. “He really _is_ young, isn’t he.”

“Told you.” Phil sighed and grabbed at the back of his neck. “But…”

“Yes, gorgeous, too.” She smiled at him gently. “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

She herded Jasper toward the hall, stopping in the doorway to look over her shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Phil, but… Don’t start being stupid now.”

When the door clicked shut behind her, Phil found himself fighting the urge to throw something at it. 

_When did I turn into a teenager? It hadn’t been fun the first time around._

He scrubbed a hand over his face and went to knock at the bathroom.

“Anton? We’re alone. May I join you?”

___

Clint turned on the shower but didn’t immediately climb under the spray. Instead, he pressed his ear to the wood of the door, trying to listen to the conversation in the room beyond. A knot built in the pit of his stomach as he strained to hear, just catching the sound of voices with no discernible words, and, not for the first time, he cursed his fucked up hearing and the crash that had caused it. It was clear he wasn’t going to learn anything important through the door.

Besides, what more did he need for confirmation? _Phil_ , as his friends called him, was clearly not just a simple businessman here to pick up a guy. To pick up Clint. 

And all the wishing in the world wasn’t going to change that. A knock against the wood right beside Clint’s ear startled him out of his mope. 

“Anton? We’re alone. May I join you?”

Moving silently, Clint slipped out his hearing aids and ducked under the spray to wet his hair and skin before stepping back out to unlock the door. Phillip’s arms reached for him immediately, drawing him close and kissing his shoulder, his neck, his lips. Clint leaned into the embrace, letting himself be held. He felt a most inexplicable urge to cry. 

_Why can’t Nat be wrong, just once? Why can’t I have something all for myself?_ He grabbed handfuls of Phillip’s shoulders, clinging a bit harder than necessary.

Phillip was speaking again; Clint could hear the rumble of his voice, feel the vibrations where they were pressed chest to chest. He drew away to point at the small pieces of tech on the counter and then at his ears. With water on his hands, he couldn’t really get them back in. Phillip reached out to cup Clint’s chin, tipping his face up for eye contact. Phillip exaggerated whatever words he was saying, but the spill of water and the echoes off the tile muddied the sounds. Clint sighed. Lip-reading was hard in English, but it was damned impossible in Not English. Phillip’s worried expression made the question plain enough, however. _Are you okay?_ Clint had no idea how to answer that. He nodded, paused, and then shook his head no. Phillip didn’t answer in words, but he tightened his grip on Clint’s back and kissed him again.

Clint pulled away to gesture at the shower behind him, asking, “Will you come in with me?” He was sure his voice came out too loud, but Phillip didn’t flinch. He just smiled softly and nodded. The sweetness, the faux-honesty of that smile stabbed Clint in the gut, and he suddenly just wanted to wash away the evidence of the morning: all the drying flakes on his stomach and the no-longer-pleasant ache in his back and thighs. He stepped under the water and grabbed for the shampoo, and, if he kept his eyes closed against the hot prickle beneath his lids, well… Surely it just looked like he was trying to keep out the soap.

 

Phil wasn’t sure if Anton was so tense as a result of the interruption, or if Anton was imagining possible scenarios that could lead to an interruption like that. Phil didn’t know how to say “It’s not my wife or my husband, and I’m not a cheating bastard” or “My friends are horrible people who shouldn’t be allowed out in public” without using words. So he took the shampoo out of Anton’s hands and tried to speak with his touch.

_I really do want you,_ his fingertips massaged into Anton’s scalp, and some of the tightness eased out of Anton’s shoulders.

_You’re the most amazing lover I’ve ever had._ He mouthed along the side of Anton’s neck to burn the words into the muscle that quivered under his lips. 

_I want to tell you the truth, and I hate myself for lying._ Phil pressed his chest into Anton’s back, as if his heart could beat the words directly to Anton’s if they were close enough.

Anton leaned back into Phil’s chest, head tipping back to rest against his shoulder and heaving a sigh as the last of the tension followed the trail of hot water down their bodies and along the tile to the drain.

_I’m sorry if you were frightened._ Phil turned Anton in his arms to kiss him, slow and deep, making himself as vulnerable and naked emotionally as he was physically.

Anton turned off the water and reached out to snag two towels, handing one to Phil. Phil knotted it around his waist before taking the other to pat the water off of Anton’s body. Anton caught Phil’s hand, leaving his hearing aids on the bathroom counter, and led the way back to the bed. 

“Rest with me?” Anton’s eyes were so impossibly blue in the afternoon sunlight, wide, so young. So vulnerable. Phil had to kiss him again, long, deep, hard, before dragging the covers over their warm, damp, naked bodies.

This time, it was Phil who turned his back to spoon against Anton’s chest, knowing there was nothing he could say to make this better.

 

Clint held Phillip tightly, trying to keep his arm high enough on Phillip’s chest to avoid the black and green streaks from his attack. He stuffed his other arm under Phillip’s head, trailing his fingers through his thinning hair, and wishing they could go back in time an hour and erase everything that had happened since. _Well, not the explosive orgasms._ He had a feeling this was it, this was where the truth started to come out, when he quit being Anton and turned back into plain old Clint Barton: eight years older and useless for much of anything but sticking arrows in things. Maybe he should grab one last kiss and slip out now, letting Phillip think Anton had just freaked out and walked away.

Phillip sighed and his body started to relax. Clint felt him tense enough to roll his head back for a kiss, and Clint found himself unconsciously melting into Phillip’s back, letting their lips slide together with a couple lazy brushes of tongue. Phillip rolled in his arms, curling around Clint’s body, twining their legs into a clingy braid, to speak directly into Clint’s ear, over-enunciating his polished Russian.

“Today was perfect.” The hot breath against Clint’s neck made goosebumps race down his arms. “I have never… It’s never been… You are the best I’ve ever had.”

The words burned through Clint’s skin, heating up his blood and dancing along his nerves. It sounded so sincere, so… true. This wasn’t the kind of thing Clint got. Other people had lovers who adored them, had people who put effort into making them feel wanted. _Normal_ people were held like they were something precious. Clint didn’t get that. He had fast fucks with people who chased their own pleasure and then slid out of his bed and out of his life. He didn’t have lovers who made sure he could hear their praise, didn’t get men who wrapped him up and tried to make him feel safe.

And maybe Phillip was doing this for Anton. But it was Clint’s body he held. It was Clint’s neck he was kissing. It was Clint he’d made fall so damned hard. And even if Phillip wasn’t real, either, his touch felt like truth. 

But it was Clint who would have to leave.

A broken sob tore out of Clint’s throat, and he twisted, pinning Phillip to the mattress and kissing him until his words dried up. Until the shaking faded out of Clint’s hands. Until they were both warm and relaxed and together and ready to sleep.

“Just a little rest,” Clint mumbled, pulling the duvet higher and tucking it gently around Phillip’s freckled shoulders. “Just for a few minutes.” His last thought before he dropped off was a wish for time to trace his mouth along those freckles, find the hidden constellations that would make Phillip gasp and groan and shiver apart.

____

 

The mattress shifting and quaking under him woke Phil, and he was reaching for the gun that wasn’t under his pillow before he realized what was happening and sank back down. Anton had slid off the bed and was walking across the room, gloriously naked and unbearably beautiful in the glow of the afternoon sunlight. Phil remained hypnotized by the ripple of muscles in Anton’s ass until it vanished into the bathroom and the door closed, blocking his view. He put his hands over his face and groaned, wondering how he was going to get out of the mess Jasper and Maria had gotten him into. 

He sorted through and discarded various explanations from “they wanted to meet you before I proposed” to “for people I have never and will never sleep with, they’re way too invested in my sex life.” The first would likely necessitate the purchase of an actual engagement ring and that was a promise Phil couldn’t keep; the latter had honesty in its favor, but it wasn’t something Phil wanted to think about, let alone _say_. By the time the door squeaked open, he’d mentally worked out an acceptable truth to tell. 

“Who were they?” Anton leaned against the doorframe, unabashedly naked and impossibly appealing. He folded his massive arms over the bulk of his chest, and Phil felt a swoop of attraction low in his belly. 

“Friends.” He pushed himself up to his elbows for a better view, groaning at the pull on his bruised ribs and some new soreness in his thighs and abs. “Jasper and Maria, that I told you about. They… They were sent to help close the deals I’ve been working on here. To let me get back to my vacation. And you.”

The last part stretched the truth to breaking, but Phil willed it to be true. Maybe, while they dug around, he could, er, _perfect his cover_. Or words to that effect.

“Ah.” Anton studied him, and Phil felt pinned, stripped down and peeled open for dissection. “And they just came bursting in because they… Why, Phillip? That was not a good time for them to interrupt.”

With a sigh, Phil sat up all the way and held out his arms. Anton hesitated, biting his lower lip indecisively before finally pushing off from the door and crossing to the bed. Phil drew him down, pulling until they were wrapped tightly together, Anton slouching to rest his temple against Phil’s collarbone. 

“They heard shouting, assumed we were having a fight, and decided to try the door.” He kissed Anton’s hair, nosing through the softness with a blissful hum before continuing. “I guess the lock didn’t fully engage when we came in.”

“Mmm.” Anton’s fingers were tracing whorls on Phil’s back, and Phil nearly purred at the sensation. “And now that they are in town, you’ll have to divide your time?”

“Just this evening.” Phil squeezed harder. “I promised to have supper with them. Get them up to speed on the project. Tomorrow I hope to introduce them to you. Maybe over lunch?”

“Yes.” Anton struggled free and sat up to kiss Phil’s mouth. “Yes, I would like that.”

He pressed Phil down to the mattress and climbed on top of him, body flexing like a great cat.

“I don’t think it’s possible for me to go again yet,” Phil confessed, feeling his cheeks heat. “Not at my age…”

Anton kissed him to silence before answering. “Your age is perfect. And all I want right now is feel you against me, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Phil wrapped one leg around Anton’s hip, pulling their bodies flush. “I like that idea.” _I like you,_ he didn’t add, knowing he was at risk of sounding like a smitten preteen.

____

 

“So two of his associates just show up out of the blue?” Natasha was sitting opposite Clint at the wee table in their room, but he couldn’t look at her after reciting the humiliating events of the morning.

Clint nodded without lifting his head from where his face was buried in his hands. “Just in time to see me jizz all over myself with Phillip’s dick buried in my ass.” He was proud of himself for the way his voice was steady, if slightly muffled by his palms. 

“What happened after that?” Nat’s voice was breathy with horrified fascination. Not that Clint blamed her; he’d have felt much the same way had it not been his junk waving around in the breeze and his lover’s ass on glorious display. He finally looked up, knowing his face was beet red, but he had to see if she was laughing at him.

“Phillip grabbed a pillow to block the important bits, threw them out in the hall and _suggested_ I get the shower going while he dealt with them.” He sighed morosely. “The worst part of the whole thing was that the whole calm and in charge thing was really hot. If I hadn’t just come my brains out--” Nat made a face, scowling at the graphic description-- “I’d have been ready for round two right then.”

“Sane people are attracted to appearances or kindness.” She wasn’t smiling, but Clint could see the tiny tug to the corner of her lips that showed how desperately she wanted to laugh. “Trust you to get all hot at competence in literal ass-covering.” She gave him a tiny, mischievous smile. 

Clint sighed again, folded his arms on the tabletop and pressed his face into them. He was never going to hear the end of this. Never. In another decade, she’d still find a way to tease him about Phillip. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt by then.

“So you never got to search his room?” Her voice jerked him out of his depressed predictions 

“What part of fucked senseless and then snuggled to sleep doesn’t register with you?” Clint rolled his head to scowl up at her. “And _after_ all that, he decided that, just because _he_ couldn’t get it up again was no reason for _Anton_ not to have another go. So he managed to get me off with his mouth and two fingers in my…”

“Stop.” Nat held up one hand, palm out in front of her. “I don’t want that kind of detail.”

“I clearly found the flaw with your decision to make Anton just twenty-seven years old.” Clint scowled at her. “Thirty-five, Nat. It’s harder than it was at twenty-seven.” He looked away to squint at nothing, running that sentence through his head again. “Or not, which is the problem.”

“Weeeeelllll,” Nat drawled the word, her faint accent shifting into something decidedly American. “What if I told you that you might not have to participate in this little charade much longer? That you can very likely give your Phillip one last send-off and then get yourself out of that mess?”

“I… You… Whuuut?” Clint blinked, tried to picture _not_ marrying Phillip and changing his own fake name to fly home. It wasn’t a picture he liked, but he’d never admit that out loud. “ _How?_

“Zeg has been in contact with that SHIELD agent that’s in town. They’re apparently trying to get on SHIELD’s good side, so they’ve been passing information to him.” Nat wiggled in her seat, excited as she began laying out plans, in control again at last. “You and I have come up frequently, although not by name. Apparently he’s as curious about us as we are about him. So…” Her smile went sharp. “We’ll ask them to set up a meeting with him.”

Clint blinked once. Twice. “I think I just got lost in pronouns.”

“I’m going to tell Waarzegster to introduce us to this Agent Coulson, and we’ll convince him to help us retrieve our plans.” She grinned wickedly. “And SHIELD will likely be just grateful enough to help you and I get home, since we have nothing active on their radar right now. You won’t even have to fake-marry your second-class undercover boyfriend.”

“That’s…” Clint took a deep breath, trying to wrap his brain around the idea, choosing not to argue with her description of Phillip. Yet. There was nothing second class about Phillip. So he might not be all fancy, government-sanctioned-covert-operative like the mythical _Agent Coulson_. He was sexy and smart and competent and… _Mission, Clint._ “That’s brilliant, actually.” 

“Of course it is.” Nat shook her hair back from her face. “I came up with it.”

“I wonder if we’ll ever figure out who Phillip Marcus really is.” Clint huffed and picked at a nail. “I mean… what if he works for Quinn? Or, God, worse! Hammer Industries!”

“Or any of the actual villains,” Nat offered.

“I’m not sure there are any more villainous than Quinn. Or just… I don’t know, _oilier_ than Hammer. I mean, urk. I hope he has better taste than to work for that asswipe.” He chewed on the side of his thumb, trying to squash down fantasies of turning the Black Widow and Hawkeye twosome into a Black Widow and Hawkeye and Dude in a Suit trio. “Hey! What if he works for Stark? Maybe he’s been reporting to Ms. Potts on his time away! That’d be cool. Maybe we’d see him next time we went in to get my ears worked on.”

“Clint…” There was a warning in Nat’s voice that Clint chose to ignore.

“But, with my luck, I’m betting it’s one of the more illegal groups.” He sighed. “He just doesn’t strike me as a terrorist, is all. Although I still think I could forgive him for anything but Hammer.”

“Clint.” The bite to her voice forced him away from fantasies of Phillip watching his back while he aimed an arrow at the heart of a drug lord, swooning as Clint made an impossible shot look ridiculously easy. “Stop it. You don’t know who he is, and, chances are, when you find out, you’re not going to like the answer. Think of who’s in play right now, Clint! They’re not good people.”

“Yeah…” Clint climbed slowly to his feet, heading for his third shower of the day and a change of clothes. “Yeah… that’ll be…” He closed the bathroom door behind himself without finishing the sentence.

____

 

Jasper was still scowling with exaggerated annoyance at Phil when they all sat down for supper. He continued to glare until he had a glass of wine in his hand and half of the contents in his stomach. Phil waited, knowing what he was in for.

“So,” Jasper dragged out the word. “The untouchable Phil Coulson has finally been touched.”

“I dunno.” Maria was draped in her chair in an overblown display of unconcern. “Looked to me more like our Phil was doing the touching.”

That was the moment Phil realized how much he’d missed his friends.

“The touching was mutual.” He sniffed and took a drink of his own wine. “Extremely mutual. For some reason beyond my comprehension, Anton seems to be quite interested.”

“He did rather look to be into it,” Maria quipped, recrossing her legs and lifting one eyebrow as she peered over the rim of her wine glass.

“At least we know Phil was,” Jasper returned. He winked at her and then laughed as Phil scowled at him. “Seriously, dude. If you’d just answered your phone, I would have been spared the Coulson O Face.”

“Marcus, if you please.” Phil ostensibly turned his attention to the menu, more focused on the playful familiarity of his friends’ banter than on the words on the page.

“No.” Maria picked up her own menu. “Marcus O Face sounds like something I’d like to see even _less_ , if you follow me.”

“He doesn’t have one.” Jasper frowned, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. “As far as I’m aware.” 

“New pact.” Phil bit his lip for a moment before continuing. “Let’s never discuss the probability of our _boss_ experiencing sexual satisfaction again.”

“Seconded.” Maria shook her head before promptly nullifying the agreement by turning to Jasper and asking, “And how the hell would _you_ even know, Jas?”

“Remember that mission in Brazil about six years ago?” Jasper slid off his glasses to rub at his eyes with fingers and thumb. “You don’t want to know the kinds of things that come out of his mouth when he’s drugged to the gills.” He shuddered. “I had no idea someone asexual could be so...” He trailed off and shuddered again.

Phil pondered that thought and conceded the point with a nod. “You’re right. He’s difficult enough on a normal day. And please never share details of that conversation.”

“Speaking of details…” Maria straightened in her seat, resting her elbows on the edge of the table and propping her chin on her laced-together fingers. “That’s exactly what I want right now. So, Anton while we eat, and then business when we’re back at the hotel.” 

Over the meal, Phil tried to describe the progression of his relationship with Anton without using words like “beautiful,” “perfect,” or “horny as hell.” Jasper teased him mercilessly, in spite of his attempts at tact, and Maria-- who Phil’d always suspected of being a closet romantic-- kept giving him warm, slightly goofy smiles. 

“Anyway,” Phil finally concluded, fidgeting with the remains of his meal, “after that, F… _Nick_ told me not to do it anymore. Do _Anton_ anymore. So, uhh, if you could leave out what you saw this morning…”

“Wait.” Maria dropped her fork on her plate and blotted her lips with the edge of her napkin. “Nick said… And then you…”

“You boned against orders.” Jasper dropped his own utensils and leaned back in his seat. He started to laugh, quickly going breathless and wiping at his eyes. “I can’t decide if I should hit you or congratulate you for finally being human.”

Phil put his face in his hands and sighed. “I know. It’s just… _Shit._ ”

“Hey,” Maria’s voice was gentle as she set her hand on his wrist. He looked up at her touch, holding her eyes, begging her to understand. “Phil, you _know_ this isn’t real. You can’t just…. You have to keep some distance here.” She bit her lip. “Are you too compromised to continue?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Phil snapped and jerked away. “It was just… tension relief. Get him out of my system.”

She studied him for a moment longer, and Phil didn’t know what she saw on his face. Whatever she read, she finally glanced away and exchanged a look with Jasper. He nodded in reply, and she turned back to Phil. 

“So here’s how we play it,” she said. “This stays out of our reports, but, the first sign we have that you are in _any_ way in too deep, we call it and you _will_ be pulled. You can’t go in there with half your attention on his, er, attributes.”

“Don’t you mean ‘assets?’” Jasper quipped, and they all laughed, the tension easing away slightly as they collected themselves to head back to the hotel. Phil couldn’t fully relax, though, knowing he’d have some decisions to make all too soon.

____

“Tell him…. Tell him the names Black Widow and Hawkeye. Tell him we’d like to arrange a meeting. An exchange of information. Day after tomorrow. And then, well. Then we’ll see what there is to see.”

Natasha disconnected the call and smiled, cold as a Russian winter. The sooner this meeting took place, the sooner the mission wrapped, the sooner she could get Clint away from his fantasy and back into the real world. Love and relationships were for innocents, not people who were always on the run, who were always in danger. Who lived at the edge every moment and had to stay sharp to keep from tipping over. Not people like Clint. Like herself.

He was already in too deep, and she dreaded the fallout when this Phillip let Clint down. She didn’t give a damn how much Clint cared about him. When he hurt Clint, she would kill him. 

If she could just get Clint away before the betrayal happened, the memory of Phillip would be a happy one, and Clint would be able to get on with his real life.

____

“So why are we doing this in here instead of my room?” Phil sat backwards in the chair at the desk in Maria’s room, chin resting on his folded arms on the back. 

“Because I will never be able to so much look at the number on the door of that room without seeing your O face.” Jasper stepped out of his shoes and threw himself onto his back on the bed, grabbing an extra pillow to prop up his head. He had to wiggle aside as Maria hip-bumped him out of the way so she could perch beside him, legs crossed to open the laptop in front of her. “And, if you’ve been made once, can you still guarantee that no one’s bugged the place? Imagine if someone was listening to you and your boy do the nasty.”

“Okay, Jasper.” Phil rubbed one eye with the butt of his hand before scratching his fingers through his hair. No wonder all his follicles were leaving him; his friends had him abusing the poor things. “First, never say the phrase ‘O face’ around me. Ever again. Second, I will shoot you if you ever repeat ‘do the nasty.’ Third, I _did_ check the room after Anton left this afternoon. I’m not _new_.”

“I dunno, Coulson.” Maria didn’t look up from where she was pulling up file after file on her computer. “From where I was standing, that really did look like doing the nasty.”

“I hate you both.”

Jasper convulsed with laughter as he reached up to loosen his tie and unfasten his collar. His jacket and Phil’s had already been hung on spare hangers in the wardrobe. Maria was wearing a simple pantsuit with flowing legs, sleeveless, but her soft wrap sweater had been abandoned on top of her mile-high heels beside the bed. Phil unknotted his own tie, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt and then rolling up his sleeves. This, the slow shift from SHIELD agents to three friends who happened to have access to international secrets, was a familiar dance, and it soothed away the last of the tension that had built throughout the evening.

“Pull up the financials first,” Jasper directed, waving one hand vaguely in Maria’s direction. “It was a good thing you had me looking into that, Phil. Found a couple of interesting details about our friends at B and R.”

“Such as?” Phil draped his arms over the chair back again, eager, ready to get back into his actual job after two weeks of feeling out of the loop.

“Such as…” Maria clicked the mouse. “Okay. This. Apparently, the money for the security team came in from outside. They’re still running checks, but it appears to have come from two different companies. One of them remains unidentified, but the other is a subsidiary of Hammer Industries.”

Phil swung his leg over the chair and crossed to the bed, scooting in beside Maria and making both her and Jasper reshuffle to create space. He quickly scanned the report filed by a young analyst named Halliwell. It was very detailed, very clearly written, and it very thoroughly demonstrated the money trail from Justin Hammer to a small company named JH Holdings then to Brown and Richolt, and from there to a firm identified only as BWH. 

“Any word on who this BWH is?” Phil clicked to the next document, a spreadsheet that showed the other half of the payment to the same and where the money had come into Brown and Richolt, but without identifying where it had originated.

“Not so much as a whisper,” Maria leaned back against the headboard, folding her arms behind her head. “But two separate influxes of money for the same thing? Sounds like one of them paid the security team to secure and the other paid the team to steal.”

“Mm, possibly.” Phil scrolled over the spreadsheet again. “However, I have an informant here who knows more than they’re telling. Yet. I think I’m about to get what we need. We’ll see when I talk to them tomorrow.”

“Are we done?” Jasper sat up and stretched. “My phone’s about to buzz out of my pocket, and I think it’s Malene. I promised to meet her for drinks tonight.”

“Just make sure you talk to her about _this_ mission at some point,” Maria told him. “I know how the two of you like to gossip about anything but real work. I’m going to kick you both out now so I can go to sleep. Jetlag is starting to whisper in my ear.”

Phil bid them both goodnight, collected his jacket, and walked to his room. His phone buzzed just as he was slipping his shoes off, and he plucked it off the nightstand to find a text message in Russian.

_I have to see you. Dancing?_

He quickly typed an affirmative, throwing down his tie, leaving on his jacket, retying his shoes, and heading for the door. The reply was an address, and Phil slipped into the shadows out front as he waited for the taxi the front desk had called for him. This was a remarkably bad idea, but Phil pushed that aside in favor of remembering what it had felt like last time, Anton sliding along his chest. How hard it had been to keep his hands settled in semi-appropriate places. How hard _he’d_ been from the heat of Anton against him.

_This time I know that touching is actually welcome._

____

 

“What are you doing?” Nat stepped into the bathroom door and watched Clint spike his hair. He met her eyes in the mirror and smirked. 

“Have a date tonight.” He turned around, smirk growing to a full grin. She raised an eyebrow at the expanse of chest showing in the unbuttoned v of his deep violet shirt. 

“You’re going to see Phillip.” More correctly, he appeared to be going to get fucked behind the closest door when he saw Phillip. It wasn’t Anton in front of her but _Clint Barton_ , Hawkeye signature color and all. 

“Fuck yes, I’m going to see Phillip.” Clint shouldered her out of the way and went to shove his feet in his battered combat boots, leaving the purple laces undone. Nat studied him impassively, and he crossed his arms over his chest. Jeans, tight on the ass and torn on one knee, a silky purple shirt, three buttons unfastened, hair gelled and styled. He’d shaved, playing up his babyface, and was lightly splashed with the aftershave she had purchased for him an age ago. He never wore scents, because it made it too easy to identify him later, to tell if he’d been in a room. He’d learned _that_ lesson from her, as she was prone to leaving a trail of perfume to taunt her enemies. 

“You’re dressed like yourself, Clint.” She crossed her own arms, flexing her shoulders. “Are you trying to get yourself caught? What if he’s here looking for _Clint Barton?_ Will you just serve yourself up to him?”

“If he hasn’t recognized me by now, he’s not going to.” Clint shrugged carelessly. “He’s had plenty of opportunity to use me and abuse me, and it hasn’t happened yet.”

“You’re an idiot.” _You’re making it too easy for him to break you, to leave pieces I can’t mend._ “It’s too dangerous.”

He answered with another shrug. “Gotta keep my cover intact, right?’”

“I told you that you don’t have to do this anymore.” She heard her own desperation bleeding into her voice and sucked in a quick breath to steady her nerves. “We don’t _need_ him now that we have a real contact.”

“Good. Then I can fuck him because I want to.” Clint grabbed his duffel, beginning to dig through a nearly-hidden pocket on one end. “And I do want to, Nat.”

He huffed a sigh, turning around with a handful of silver that resolved itself into a variety of jewelry as he slid the rings over his fingers, strapped the silver-studded leather band of a wide bracelet around his wrist, and began poking the posts for a pair of silver hoops through the holes in his lobes.

“So we’re going to meet this Coulson person in another day or two, right?” Clint twisted a ring around and around on his right index finger. “And then I won’t have any need for Phillip, and we’ll probably be too busy planning the rest of this mission and making arrangements to get home for me to have time for anything else, right? So this is kinda _it_ , Nat. This is where I… This is it.” He looked up, and she was horrified to see his eyes had gone red, watery. 

“Clint, you can’t do this. You have to get out _now_.” She reached up to cup his jaw in both her hands. “None of it was real, Маленький брат. It _wasn’t real!_ Not him, and not you either.”

He slapped her hands away and twisted free. “Don’t give a fuck, Nat. Because he’s one helluva kisser, and he’s a great lay, and I…” He bit his bottom lip and looked down, eyes brimming. “Don’t wait up.”

She watched him grab his jacket and stomp out the door, slamming it firmly behind him.

_He’s not thinking straight. It’s just the stress getting to him at last._ She bit viciously at her thumbnail. _He can’t possibly be this tangled up yet. If he just stops… If he’ll just get out now, he’ll forget, get over it._ Panic began to well up at the back of her throat. _If he’ll let it be a one night stand, he won’t want to stay with Phillip. He won’t want to leave me._

Digging through her own bag, she found her Widow’s Bites by touch, sliding them on and then grabbing her jacket. A handgun in the waistband of her jeans, and a quick check of the knives in her boots, and she was ready to go. But she hesitated, hand on the knob, trying to figure out if following him was a good idea.

_I can’t lose him._

The door clicked shut, quietly this time, and the room was empty.

____

Anton was waiting in front of a nondescript doorway when the cab pulled over, and Phil found himself being pulled out of the seat before he had time to reach for the handle himself. 

“Hi,” Phil said, forgetting to use Russian.

“Hi.” Anton grinned at him as he answered in kind and then followed up in his native tongue. “I do know that word.”

He pulled Phil along toward the doorway. Once inside, Phil was dragged through noise, spinning lights, and writhing bodies to a space on a shadowy dance floor just large enough for the two of them to wrap their arms around each other, chest to chest.

“Missed you.” Anton spoke against Phil’s ear, his lips trailing heat where they brushed the skin. “So few hours, and I already missed you.”

Phil tightened his right hand on the back of Anton’s neck and let the other collect a handful of Anton’s firm ass. Instead of answering in words, he buried his face against the side of Anton’s neck, pressing one gentle kiss to the smooth skin before biting softly. Anton shivered at the pressure of teeth before worming one arm inside Phil’s jacket.

“Can’t get enough of you. Of the things you do to me.” Anton’s other hand stroked through Phil’s hair, and he wished he could purr. “The way I feel when I’m with you. The way you look at me. Touch me. Fuck me…”

_I’ve discovered the cause of spontaneous combustion,_ Phil thought. He dragged Anton’s hips the last millimeter closer, shoving his thigh between Anton’s legs. _Beautiful men with silver tongues and…_ His thoughts trailed off as Anton tightened his grip, flexing against Phil in time with the thump of bass.

Phil lifted his face, searching for Anton’s mouth, and then they were kissing, hot, wet, and sharp. Their hands clutched at whatever parts they could get a grip on, and for a few minutes-- hours, lifetimes-- Phil forgot they were in public. Forgot he was on a mission. Forgot everything but the feeling of Anton, the taste of Anton, the name of Anton. And then Anton jerked sharply away.

Natalya, Anton’s flame-haired sister, gripped Anton’s bicep tightly, glaring angrily at Phil. She shouted something he couldn’t hear and then turned, dragging her brother away. Anton held up one hand, palm out toward Phil, clearly asking him to wait. He winked before letting himself be spun around and swaggering off after Natalya’s stiff back.

Phil waited and debated before deciding he really _did_ need to know what was going on (and no, it was not his usual nosiness. Or his overtrained need for information. He was just worried about Anton. Really). So he trailed after them slowly, trying to keep sight of Anton’s broad shoulders in the tightly-packed crowd.

He stopped when he spotted them standing near the wall, both of them moving their arms furiously. Anton’s broad back blocked their hands from view, so Phil couldn’t tell if there were enough similarities between American Sign Language and Russian sign language for him to be able to understand. Anton shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders flexing as Natalya clearly continued to berate him, her hands occasionally flickering out far enough for Phil to see the snap to her fingers and wrists past the bulk of Anton’s body. After several minutes of stiff-necked stillness, Anton finally began to turn away, and Phil could see his hands as he pulled them out of his pockets.

_You want to know what I’m thinking?_ Anton’s hands were graceful as he signed, in spite of the clear anger in the tightness of his shoulders. _Here’s your sign, spider!_

And he raised both fists, middle fingers up in a very obscene, very _American_ double bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve struggled to figure out how to translate the signs in this fic. Clint and Nat are using ASL which has a distinct grammar structure that I’ve mostly ignored as I’ve written it. I cannot think in spoken English and ASL at the same time, so it took me some time to figure out how to write this. I finally decided that, since I was ignoring Russian as its own language (to the extent that I’m writing it in English and trusting that people who are fluent in both languages could figure how it’d actually be said), I would do the same for ASL. I would also like to note that Clint actually _does_ sign “Here’s your sign” pretty much verbatim. Because he’s intentionally being an asshole. And he has a deliciously crude sense of humor.
> 
>  
> 
> **NEXT WEEK, in Male Order Bride:** Meetings; Planning; and 'Zeg makes a deal.
> 
> Also, so much thank you to my patient betas [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar) and [Selana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selana/pseuds/Selana) for forgiving me for making them get on this at the last minute. I'll be better for next week. Promise! And A GIANT-SIZED, YOU'RE AWESOME THANK YOU to [desert_neon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutgirl/pseuds/desert_neon) for her gracious offer and detailed checking as another last-minute set of eyes. All three of you amazing folks ROCK!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Meet you and your friends for lunch.” There was a word deeply scratched out, followed by “Anton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There was a formatting error in chapter 7 that screwed up my italics in the second half of the chapter. It appears to be fixed now. So, if it was terribly confusing for a bit there, I apologize, and it should work better now._

____

The golden sunlight filtered to silver where it streamed through the sheer curtains of the hotel room as Phil finally blinked himself awake. Eyes half-closed against the brightness, he rolled over, hands reaching out greedily for the warm body on the other pillow only to encounter space. Emptiness. So much nothing. A distinct lack of the muscular heat that was Anton. Phil forced his eyes open the rest of the way, fumbling along the nightstand for his glasses as he sat up. He frowned and scanned the room for a hint as to where Anton might have gone, brightening slightly when he saw a small piece of paper centered on the desk. Eagerly, he rolled out from under the covers to go examine it.

“Had some work stuff to take care of this morning,” the note read in scratchy, shaky Russian. “Show tomorrow. Meet you and your friends for lunch.” There was a word deeply scratched out, followed by “Anton.” 

Phil held the paper up to the sunlight, but the hidden word was too thoroughly ruined for him to guess what it could have been. Dropping the note back to the desk, he sank into the chair and put his face in his hands. In order, he needed a shower, a cup or six of coffee, and some time and space to put order to his tangled thoughts. He also needed pants, because waking up naked and alone was unsurprisingly cold.

The water pressure in the hotel left nothing to be desired, and Phil stood under the spray until his skin was lobster red. He tried to wash away the immediacy of his memories from the night before, to give himself enough distance to regain some perspective. Seeing Anton using what appeared to be ASL (he made a note to check how similar American Sign Language was to Russian signing), and more damning, using both a very _American_ expression-- “Here’s your sign”-- and hand gesture-- _Double bird, Anton? Really?_ \-- had hit hard. Phil remembered the sinking sensation in his gut, the way his hands and lips had gone numb as Anton began to turn away from his sister. 

In the second before Phil would have been seen watching the exchange, he managed to dart out of direct line of sight. He’d stood, heart thundering and ears ringing more from emotion than from the blasting music, behind a group that appeared to be more engaged in an orgy than actual dancing, unable to move so much as a step further. He should have gotten out. Gone to find Jasper and get the facial recognition search started. There was _protocol_ for that very situation, when a cover or an informant blew the mission to hell. And Phil… he’d written that part of the training. It should have been ingrained in him.

Before he could get his heart out of his throat and get his body moving, Anton was looming in front of him, hands hot and greedy where they traced the edges of Phil’s jaw, mouth wet and eager when it slipped over his own. And Phil’s traitorous body had surged forward, demanding the comfort of familiar arms folding him close. In two minutes, Phil had his heart broken and rebuilt, all by one beautiful, pushy, boisterous boy. Anton demanded contact, demanded a response, and Phil, desperate to understand or to forget-- he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to untangle his own reasoning in that moment-- had given it, his own mouth biting, demanding, pleading with kisses. 

Everything that happened at the club blurred together after that endless kiss. The volume made speaking impossible, and Phil didn’t try. Anton kissed, clutched, ground against him, as if his body could do all the speaking necessary. And maybe it could, maybe it _did_ , because Phil responded in kind, answered every touch with touch of his own. He remembered getting his own mouth against Anton’s chest where it was sweat-slicked and obscene above that half-undone shirt, his arms locked around Anton’s lower back, dragging him to his toes to be devoured. Whatever his performance the next day, Phil hoped Anton had a shirt with a high neck or a truckload of makeup to hide the bruises bitten into that golden skin. 

It hadn't taken them long to decide to ditch the dancing, both indicating the door with smoldering looks and un-subtle gestures. They couldn’t release each other long enough to simply walk, stumbling over each other’s feet as they tried to keep their lips in contact until they were out front and dropping into a cab. The ride to Phil's hotel was merely an impression of hands sliding slowly, sensuously, over clothing, mouths never separating for longer than the time it took for a bitten-off whisper of a groan. They had parted long enough to run up the stairs and into Phil’s room, but they didn't make it to the bed before they both lost most of their clothing and all of their restraint. 

A hot blush crawled over Phil’s neck as he remembered how he’d bent Anton over in the middle of the floor, burying himself in his pliant, welcoming heat. Anton, too limber to be real, simply braced his hands on the carpet, folded completely in half while Phil gripped handprint-shaped bruises into his hips. They'd shifted positions a half-dozen times, working their way across the room, onto the edge of the mattress, finally finding their way to both the center of the bed and full nudity, where Anton straddled Phil's hips, enormous biceps wrapping Phil close as he rode him to a sublimely sloppy, frantically loud, mutual completion.

Phil hoped Anton wasn’t too sore today. For his own part, Phil’s lower back and his thighs were hating him for forgetting he was 45 and not the 25 that he so often felt like when confronted with Anton’s blatant interest.

Sighing at both his lack of self-control and his AWOL professionalism, Phil shut off the water, refusing to, er, _take himself in hand_ this time, in spite of the well of heat in his belly at the images of the night before. Anton had taken care of him well enough to last for some time, and Phil told his traitorous dick to behave itself. Not that it listened. But he was a grown man, an Agent of SHIELD, and he was decades past an inability to control himself (or so he told himself), so he simply climbed out of the shower and toweled dry, trying to parse his feelings about what he’d learned-- _Might have learned; there’s no definitive proof!_ \-- the night before. 

Anton was hiding something. That part wasn’t surprising. No one that quick, that clever, offering himself as a sacrificial lamb could afford to be entirely upfront. That Anton might not be Anton, might not be the man that Phil was… coming to care for, was a blow to Phil's ego. He was supposed to be able to tell when someone was undercover, when someone was lying about their identity. He was trained to be able to tell what was real and what wasn’t. 

_And, God, Anton felt real._ Everything about him, from the playful grin to the sexual appeal, the quiet humor and the intense way he listened. Anton was very, very real to Phil, and Phil was willing to accept anything Anton offered. Anything Anton was. 

Phil cut that thought off before it could take root. He needed clothing and coffee and a chance to observe Anton without the distraction of an opportunity to attach his mouth to that muscular, limber, gorgeous body.

The day definitely required a suit.

____

Nat was sleeping in Clint’s bed when he walked into the room, and he instantly went to curl around her, lying on top of the covers to pin her in place. She grumbled a protest, but tucked herself into the curve of his body.

“You were terribly rude last night.” Her voice was muffled by the pillow.

“ _You_ were terribly hostile last night.” Clint kissed her hair. The night before, when she’d pulled him out of Phillip’s arms to scream at him (not that he could hear her over the thumping bass at the club), he’d been ready to hit her for the… well, the _second_ time in his life. And then he’d seen that she was wearing her tricked out tasers on her wrists when she’d switched to sign, and he’d utterly lost his temper, shouting at her in sign and flipping her off before he’d stomped away. That anger had simmered under the surface for the rest of the time he’d been at the club. Not even Phillip’s eager hands and devouring mouth were enough to settle the burn in his veins. As they’d left, though, everything had slowed down, and Phillip’s hands had gone gentle, soothing. Clint'd stopped being angry five minutes into the cab ride, and the rest of the night had been perfect. It was enough to have Clint feeling affectionate when confronted with a rumpled, still-miffed Natasha.

“I was worried. You were going off half-cocked to see some guy that doesn’t even matter anymore.”

“He does matter, Nat.” Clint huffed a sigh and squeezed her harder, resisting the nearly overwhelming desire to make a joke about how he’d hoped to be _fully cocked_. “He matters.”

“You’re in too deep.” Her shoulders tensed. “You should have cut your losses before. I just wanted… I was worried about you.”

Clint sighed again before sucking in a deep a breath and holding it a moment. “You showed up with your Bites on, Nat. What were you planning on doing?”

“I… I don’t know.” She pushed him off of her and sat up, scooting to lean her back against the headboard. “I guess I was worried that you were in danger and wouldn’t be able to get yourself out of it.”

“Danger? From _Phillip_?” Clint rolled onto his stomach and folded his arms under his chin. “Seriously, Nat. He wouldn’t do anything to me. I mean… nothing bad.” He'd done lots of things to Clint the night before, and other than that one moment of awkward knee placement, none of it was bad. And where had that man learned moves like that? 

“How do you know that, Clint?” Her fingers combed over his hair, pulling him back into the present. “You know nothing about him for certain. All that you _do_ know is that he’s a liar.”

“He’s a professional liar, if he’s someone's operative.” Clint shook her hand off of his head and rolled smoothly up to his knees. “It’s not the same thing, Nat. You lie for work all the time. _I_ lie for work all the time. You’ve lied to and about me for a decade, and it doesn’t matter. I'm lying to him right now. Still feels like he and I know each other though.”

“Name three things about him that are true, then. Just three things that are truth.” She folded her arms over her t-shirt. His t-shirt, he belatedly noticed. He chose to ignore the protective feelings that welled up when he saw it.

“Easy,” Clint snapped. “First, he’s a decent human being who doesn’t want to _use_ people. He wouldn’t touch me at all until I cracked and couldn’t hold off.”

“Basic decency. He doesn’t get a gold star.” Nat scowled. “And that could have been part of the cover. Since then, he’s certainly lost his inhibitions regarding fucking a boy young enough to be his _son_.”

“Unless he’s lying about his age, too,” Clint said, “which would make no sense, I’m not actually that much younger than he is.”

"He doesn't know that. Something else.”

“He’s hot as _hell_ in a nice suit.” Clint smiled softly, thinking of that strut through the station, jacket blowing open, hips leading the charge. 

“Is that a Truth or an opinion? Because I think you’re confused about definitions”

“S'truth, Nat. Fuck, it’s the truth. I nearly humped his leg in public.” Clint rubbed the back of his neck and wriggled, uncomfortably aware of how carried away he's been. “So he’s not one of the usual goons. You _know_ they can’t dress.”

“I’m not conceding my point,” Nat told him. “But fine. Give me something else.”

“Okay.” Clint licked his lips, imagining he could still taste Phillip there, could still feel the pressure of the heated kisses before they had fallen asleep. Could still feel the desperation and hunger and… Clint had felt _treasured_ , he realized now. The way Phillip had touched him, had licked into his mouth like he couldn’t get enough. Clint had been _wanted_. “He’s the best lay I’ve _ever_ had, Nat.”

“I’m choosing not to take offense.” Natasha raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Please, Nat.” Clint rolled his eyes. “Different universe entirely. You thought you had to, I thought I had to, and we both got right on that. He doesn’t _have_ to. He just…”

Nat waited patiently, an expression on her face that Clint couldn’t read. Her eyebrows raised in amusement, but her eyes were dark, unreadable, and her lips pinched together as if to stop a tremble. 

“Sometimes it feels like he’s touching _me_ , Nat. Me. Not Anton.” Clint sat back and pulled his knees up to his chest, looping his arms around his shins. “For once, I’m not a bow and excellent vision. I’m not an interpersonal relationship fuck-up. I’m not a random warm body in a bed. With Phillip, I feel like a real person. Someone that matters. He listens to me when I talk and actually wants to know what I think. He laughs at my jokes, even when he’s trying not to roll his eyes. He kisses me like having his mouth against mine is the only thing in the world that matters, like he’d be content if I never gave him anything else. I’ve never… This is the first time in my life I feel like more than a body or a pointy stick.”

Nat’s eyes flashed. “You sound like a fool! You have never been that to me, Clint. You've always mattered.”

Shit. She was hurt. 

“Look. Natasha… I’m sorry, okay.” Clint rolled to his knees and shuffled forward to wrap his arms around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest and petting her hair. “I’m sorry I jumped all over you last night. I’m sorry I said what I did at the club. But… Fuck, Nat! I’m compromised, okay. I know I am. I know it’s dumb, and I know I’m way over my head here. But…”

“He’ll hurt you, Clint.” Her voice was tiny, and she seemed to be shrinking against him. “He’s already hurting you.”

“No.” He pushed her away to lean his forehead against hers, staring into her eyes. “I’m hurting myself. And it’s stupid to let myself get in this deep when I know it’s not going to last. When I _know_ how much it’s going to suck when it’s over. But I don’t actually give a damn right now.”

Her mouth went all twisted and soft again, and she stroked her palm over his cheek over and over, just watching him, trying to read his thoughts.

“So it’s crazy to think, and it’s impossible, but…” He looked down at his hands where they rested on his knees, fingers tracing patterns through the rip in one, swirling along his skin. “I’d keep him, you know. Well, let him keep me. Whatever. I _would_. I can’t. And I won’t. But I would.”

Nat bit her lip and covered his fingers with her own. “No, Clint. You can’t. You’ll have to leave, and he’ll have to leave. Why drag this out?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment, watching Nat’s face and seeing the vulnerability there.

"Nobody's ever been good to me just because, Nat." Clint tried to smile, but it never reached his lips. "Outside of you, there just hasn't been a lot of kindness in my life. I'm storing it up for when it's gone. I just... I'd keep it forever if I could."

 _I know I can’t, because you need me._ He didn’t say it aloud, because it didn’t need to be said. Just a fact: the sun rises in the east, water is wet, and _I won’t ever leave you to be alone._

He decided to try to reframe his argument to keep the relationship going as long as he could into something that might move her.

“Can we at least figure out who he is before we go?” He asked. “Maybe he can help us out with getting those plans back. No matter who he’s working for. I have it on good authority that no one can resist my ass, so maybe he’s more compromised than I am.”

“I’ll ask around a bit, see what I learn.” Nat kissed him on the nose. “Maybe you’re right and we can find a use for him for a few more days.”

Clint kissed her cheek gently before rolling off the bed.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need a shower. And then we’re going to lunch with Phillip and his coworkers.”

“Have fun with that.” Nat’s shuffled back down under the covers.

Clint backtracked out of the bathroom. “Oh no. You’re coming with me.”

“Go shower.” She turned her back on him. “We’ll argue when you don’t stink.”

____

"So you had a good night, then?" Maria studied Jasper's slightly green face as he leaned in the door to his room groaning at her. "Malene doing well?"

"Malene can still drink me under the table, if that's what you're asking." Jasper waved her in and padded to where his suitcase lay open on his bed. He scratched at his naked chest while he surveyed the contents. "And she's having too much fun with her department, now that it's fully-operational."

“That’s what happens with these departments.” Maria rested her hand on Jasper’s shoulder as she reached around him to collect a pair of boxers, an undershirt, and a pair of flamboyantly red socks. She patted his back as she pushed the small pile of clothing into his arms. “Just think, in just a few short decades, she can have Fury’s job and a monstrosity like SHIELD to oversee. And if you play your cards right, you can be the first lady.”

Jasper gave her a dirty look and ducked into the bathroom, leaving the door open as he started the shower. "I'll have you know that she and I have gotten over proposing to each other. It's impossible to keep asking when the thought of the result of an accidental yes is both terrifying and hilarious."

She laughed in agreement while he checked the water temperature.

"So what do we know about this Anton guy?" Jasper peeled himself unselfconsciously out of his sleep pants as he talked through the open door; Maria had seen all he was offering too many times to bother looking. "He been vetted yet?"

"I... I really don't know." Maria was shuffling through Jasper's briefcase, and he swore quietly and made a mental note to change the combination. Again. The woman was too good at locks.

"I'll try to click a pic at lunch, then." Jasper stepped into the shower, speaking louder as the water muffled sound. "Maybe we should see about actually getting Phil married off to the guy. He seems... happy."

"Do we really think he needs a husband nearly two decades his junior, though?" Maria leaned in the doorway for ease of conversation. "Maybe, now that he's broken his celibate streak, we should get him home and find him a nice guy his own age."

"And security clearance." 

"Fair point.” Maria considered for a moment. “What about Blake?"

"God, no." Jasper shivered, frozen in horror for a moment before grabbing his shower gel and lathering up his palms. "He'd never let us sleep on Phil's bed."

"Beggars can't be choosers, Jas." Maria stepped into the bathroom to poke through Jasper's shower case. He was grateful the glass door was steaming over. "And do you really think this Russian boy would be okay with us crawling under the covers in the middle of the night?"

"Ehhh..." He considered. "Maybe, having been in the circus, he's used to things being a little freaky."

"Or maybe he's going to go possessive and greedy over Phillip Marcus's supposed bank account and cut him off from all his friends."

"Let's hold off on stopping the wedding until after lunch, at the very least." He rinsed the suds off his body and shut off the water. "Now, mind leaving the room so I can come out?"

____

Waarzegster checked the picture on the phone screen again before holding the speaker back to their ear. 

"You're certain this is Agent Coulson?" They could barely contain their laughter. "You said Agent Phil Coulson, yes?"

They listened for a long moment.

"Because we've seen him." The snickers were bubbling loose now. "Yes. We've seen him. In a place that is at once most unlikely and absolutely perfect. Oh, this _will_ be fun."

They disconnected the call and checked the photograph one last time.

"Indeed, pretty Hawk, we were so very wrong about your dance partner that night. So very wrong, indeed. Far _more_ dangerous than your usual, if half the rumors are true. No wonder you couldn't keep your wandering hands to yourself." They locked the screen and tapped the phone against their lips. “We wonder… if the Spider and the Hawk don’t know who the man is… does the man know the Spider and the Hawk? And, if not, how did they find one another? Doesn’t take a Fortune Teller to see where this could be steered with only the lightest of breezes.” 

They turned on the phone to check the picture one last time and then threw back their head and laughed until they needed to wipe their eyes on a delicate muslin handkerchief. There wasn’t much time to plan, but, with only the smallest bit of planning, and a little luck in tailing one of the world’s best assassins, they could have some fun and still collect a double payment. 

____

By the time Phil had knotted his tie neatly under his throat and smoothed the collar of his shirt, he’d made several important decisions. First was that he was _not_ going to tell Jasper or Maria what he’d witnessed in the club the night before. Not yet, at least. There wasn’t enough information. Not enough evidence to draw conclusions. So-- second decision-- Phil was going to take a picture of Anton to run through SHIELD’s recognition database. The fact that he was a civilian on an op made the check inconspicuous enough that Phil thought he would be able to get the results routed directly to his phone or laptop, hopefully keeping anyone else from finding out anything incriminating first. And third, well, third was harder. 

Third, was a clear decision to make damned certain that, when SHIELD moved Anton to the United States, it would be to New York. Just so that Phil would be near enough to offer assistance in getting settled, of course. To be a familiar face in case it became overwhelming (not that he expected things to continue, clearly. Anton deserved to move on with his life, find someone more compatible, more his age). In order for _that_ plan to work, however, he would need Jasper and Maria’s complicity in the plan. And to get them to cooperate, he would have to figure out how to show how important Anton was becoming to him while still maintaining his professionalism in the face of the mission. 

His life was going to get very complicated, very fast. Well, complicated-er. At light speed.

Phil settled his jacket collar against the collar of his shirt and checked himself in the mirror one last time before he walked up one flight of stairs toward Jasper’s room.

Two doors away from his goal, his phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket, expecting to see Anton’s number. Instead, it was again a blocked number.

“Waarzegster.” He kept his voice carefully bland. “Please tell me you’re calling with information.”

“We are calling with so much more than that, Agent Coulson.” Zeg’s voice sounded… off. A bit too tight. Were they... _laughing_? “We have something to send you into fits of joy, into ecstasies.”

“All I’m hoping for at this point is the identity of the security team.” Phil squeezed the bridge of his nose.

“But we have so much more for you than that, Agent.” Zeg let out a sound that might be considered, in some people, to be a titter. “The security team was made up of a pair of mercenaries. The most highly skilled in the business. You’ve probably heard of them. The Black Widow and Hawkeye.”

Phil froze. Of course he’d heard of them. Everyone in SHIELD had heard of them. Everyone in any sort of covert operation the world over had heard of them. Phil's clearance was high enough that he's not only heard of them, but he'd actually handled their dossiers.

The Black Widow had come out of the famed-yet-barely-known Red Room in Russia before the fall of the Soviet Union. She was known to be beautiful, skilled, and absolutely deadly. In the more than a decade that SHIELD had been tracking her, she had begun as an assassin of great repute, working alone and absolutely untouchable. No one knew where Hawkeye had come from. His arrows began showing up through the throats of drug lords and human traffickers, all people who were on SHIELD’s take-down list, only two years after the Black Widow had begun to make her solo name. It was uncertain how and _why_ the duo had teamed up six years before, but it had become instantly clear that they went from being effective apart to unstoppable as a pair. They were legendary.

If _they_ had been unable to protect the plans… Well, it certainly didn’t bode well for their innocence. But that didn’t make any _sense_. The two had clearly been hovering barely on the right side of the law for the last eight years. Why would they suddenly step over the line and risk becoming outlaws, criminals, SHIELD’s most-wanted.

A mental file near the surface of Phil's brain waved an alert, something recent to remember, but before he could get a handle on the thought--

“Agent Coulson? Are you still there?” Zeg had the exasperated snap of someone who had been speaking while being ignored for several moments.

“Yes, yes.” Phil waved his now-tangled thoughts away impatiently. He wouldn’t be able to make sense of the puzzle until he had a few more pieces. “What else is there?”

“Just this, Agent.” The purr of delight was humming through their voice again. “They wish to meet with you. They have a proposal for you. They would like to arrange this meetup to occur tomorrow afternoon. Will you be available?”

“Of course.” There was no way he wouldn’t _make himself_ available for that, if for no other reason than to be able to say he'd _actually met the Black Widow and Hawkeye._

“Excellent. We will send a car for you at two p.m. sharp. Please have yourself and your two associates waiting by the door.” Zeg chuckled again and took a deep breath. “And do tell Maria Hill hello from us. It’s been years since we’ve seen the dear girl. We hear she’s done great things since then.”

Zeg was faster on the disconnect this time, and Phil tried very hard not to be offended. He thumbed his own screen dark and hurried down the hall to beat too hard on Jasper’s door.

“Guys, there’s been a development,” he said, as he shoved Jasper aside to push his way into the room.

 

____

“Come _on_ , Nat!” Clint wasn’t even trying to disguise the whine in his voice. “I _need_ you to go with me.”

“Why, Clint?” Nat folded her arms over her chest and glared down at him where he sat on the edge of his bed, one nail scratching a hole in the cuticle of a finger on the other hand. She fought down the urge to cover his hands with her own to make him stop. “Why is this so important to you? That I be there. That I meet his friends. That I play nice when _I don’t give a damn_.”

“Because he matters to me, okay?” Clint hunched his shoulders, and Nat felt herself softening. It wouldn’t do to show that, though.

“He shouldn’t.” She bit off the words, letting her anger flow into her voice. “We don’t need him anymore. Zeg just called to inform me the meet is set up and things are moving ahead. It no longer matters who this Phillip Marcus is. We have SHIELD.”

“This isn’t about the mission.” Clint nearly mumbled the words. “Not anymore. Now it’s just… I want you there, okay?”

“Why?” she demanded again. She wanted to shake him, scream at him, tell him to stop being a child. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Because I WANT him. Fuck, Nat!” He surged off the bed, and Nat backed away to give his arms room to wave. “I want him so fucking bad, and it’s not like I can have him. ‘M not gonna run off with him or anything stupid. I’ve got YOU. I NEED you. I just… _want_ him. So please, just a little more?”

This was exactly what she’d been afraid of the first moment she’d seen the starry look in Clint’s eyes after the ride home from the airport. _This_ was not supposed to happen. The man who came for Clint was not supposed to be someone handsome and intelligent, kind and warm. He was supposed to be creepy and stiff, demanding and unwelcomely handsy. He was supposed to be easily useable and more easily forgettable. And he wasn’t supposed to be able to hurt _her_ Clint.

“If you are around him more, it’ll only hurt worse when it’s over.” She reached out to cup the side of his face, and he shook her off.

“That’s… not actually possible.” He turned away, shoulders still hunched, looking like a child bracing for a blow. “I’m bleeding out, Nat. I’m bleeding out, and he’s stuck through me like…” Clint huffed a sigh. “I only have two more weeks, and then I have to let go. Please. Just let me have this.”

Nat watched him for a long, long time. She wished she could give him this. That he could have this man. She wished that this Phillip was just who he’d pretended to be, because she would move heaven and hell to get _that_ man to keep her Clint. On a timeshare basis, to be certain. She couldn’t risk losing him, though. Not like this. Not to some unknown agency. If only… If only Clint _could_ have something like this in his life. If only there weren’t less than two weeks before it would all fall apart.

Clint never asked her for anything, though. Not one thing for himself. He gave and gave to her, watched over her, accepted the protection and care she gave him, but never _asked_ for one thing more. And this… it was _just_ lunch. Just to be his sister, which she felt was true without the role to play.

“Fine.” She watched his shoulders spread, uncurling from their tucked position. “I’ll go. And I will hold you when it ends, and I will accept your sadness.” She took his hand as he turned and held it out. “I will not even tell you that I told you so.”

He laughed, a childlike bark of joy, and flung his arms around her shoulders.

She was certainly going to regret this decision.

____

_Sister agreed to lunch. I promised we'd keep our hands to ourselves in front of her. See you shortly._

Phil read the text twice before telling his libido to behave itself. He refused to think of Anton's breath on his throat, the way Anton had sucked a perfect pair of matching bruises into his collarbone before they had finally settled into sleep the night before. And he most certainly would not allow himself to dwell on the whispered words of admiration, adoration, affection that Anton had breathed into Phil's hair as they had both drifted off, naked, sated, and twisted together.

No, he would think of none of that. Phil was a goddamned _professional_.

____

Clint managed to keep his leg from bouncing nervously under the edge of the table through the application of sheer force of will. He was not intimidated by meeting Phillip's best friends, the two people most of Phillip's stories were about, because their relationship didn't really matter. He didn't need their approval. He only needed to hold Phillip's attention two more weeks, and then he'd walk away, and it wouldn't matter if these two hated him. They'd certainly hate him then. Unless they were all Hammer's goons. 

Studying the pair that Phil hemmed in across from Clint, he could about believe that Jasper was with Hammer. Either that or he was the world's best patsy. Patsy was a distinct possibility; no one could look that innocently babyfaced without either being an utter moron or wickedly brilliant. And Phil wouldn't laugh so fondly at a moron. Probably. 

Maria, on the other hand, was terrifying. She and Nat were still sizing each other up like lionesses preparing to defend their cubs.

Maybe they were with Quinn, although he tended to get his own hands dirty, once the path was clear and there was no one left standing to arrest him. Stark was taking the lead as the most likely, which was another tally in the "Phil's okay and not trying to steal scary weapons because he's a terrorist" box. Whatever Potts was doing in Amsterdam, it was almost a guarantee she had nothing to do with a top-secret, thoroughly illegal, stolen weapon plan auction. Ten Rings was out, as no one there could work undercover. Most of the non-American groups were instantly dismissed after five minutes of listening to the decidedly American idiom the three spoke to each other; top missions were never trusted to foreigners. 

Except the Black Widow. Or Hawkeye.

Clint sighed and dropped his menu, meeting Phillip's sardonic smile across the table. They’d been staring at each other off and on for a solid thirty minutes, and Clint felt the need to touch like an ache in his palms. Phillip was in a suit-- not The Suit, but he was still beautiful. The dark grey highlighted Phillip’s lovely blue eyes, and the tie made him look distinguished, sophisticated. Clint wanted to rumple him up and put him behind glass to keep him perfect in equal measure. Phillip looked down, biting his lip and taking a deep breath that made his nostrils flare, and Clint nearly whimpered, realizing that Phillip was thinking the same sort of rumpling thoughts about himself. 

Small talk continued around him, mostly in English, so Clint ignored it, pretending he didn’t understand a word. At least Nat wasn't making things harder on him. 

"So, what exactly do the three of you do?" Natasha asked the question with a heavy accent, and a crease momentarily appeared between Phillip's brows.

 _Spoke too soon._ Clint fought down the urge to kick Nat's ankle under the table. 

"We're the cleanup team for F. Nicholas Financial." Phil answered her easily, frown vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. "The company has investments in firms worldwide, and, if something looks suspicious, we're sent in to check it out. This assignment is much more pleasant than the usual, however, as we're just checking the history of a firm our boss is looking to dump money into."

"I'm the data analyst for the team." Jasper leaned forward, hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke. "Scanning the paperwork and public information for discrepancies." 

Phil interrupted with a raised hand to translate the conversation into Russian for Anton's benefit, and Clint gave him a smile he hoped was grateful instead of lustful. Phillip's lingual skills were as appealing as his... lingual skills. Clint savagely derailed that train of thought and took a large gulp of water to cool himself down.

Jasper waited for Phillip to finish and then continued. "Maria does the same with internal documents and data streams. Whatever we find, we hand off to Phil...lip, and he puts it all together to see if there's a problem or just a glitch."

Clint didn’t miss the hesitation in the name, but rationalized that it didn’t _mean_ anything. Phil was a derivative of Phillip. Probably they just called him by the diminutive, and Jasper was just trying to keep from confusing the non-native English speakers. The apparent non-native English speakers. Well, Clint.

He chewed his lip and fidgeted with his napkin for a moment before looking up to find Phillip staring at him, eyes hot on Clint’s face.

“If you will all excuse me a moment…” Phillip was speaking Russian-- clearly, his words were not for anyone else at the table’s benefit. He rose and made his way towards the back of the restaurant, pausing before the door to a hallway at the rear to give Clint one more intense stare. Clint nodded to him, feeling a small smile curling his lip. A small sound that might have been a snicker from Maria pulled Clint’s attention back to the table.

“Enjoying the show?” Maria asked in very rough Russian. 

“Very much.” Clint stared her down, letting the blush he could feel at his neck begin coloring his face. “It is a very _good_ show.”

Nat translated for Jasper, who roared with laughter, turning heads around the restaurant toward their table.

“And, if you’ll excuse me also.” Clint slid out of his chair. “Phillip always has good ideas.”

Clint tried to keep his pace at “hurrying to the bathroom” instead of “hurrying toward the most attractive man I’ve ever seen” as he followed Phillip’s path across the room. He pushed open the door, and a hand locked around his wrist, a gorgeous expanse of deep grey wool crowded him against the wall.

____

Phil waited in the little hall, shifting impatiently. He’d been fairly obvious, he’d thought, in his invitation for Anton to follow him. He smoothed his hair and his tie and leaned against the wall, thinking about the lunch so far. Natalya’s accent was slightly puzzling, given how much softer it had been the first time they’d met. But maybe she’d mostly been using Russian lately. Maybe she was just having an off day. Maybe she was playing it up to attract Jasper’s attention. Or Maria’s. He waved it off as unimportant and smoothed his tie again.

_Any minute now…_

The door opened, and Phil reached out, catching Anton’s wrist to reel him in, turning to press Anton’s muscular bulk against the wall. 

“Hi.” Phil pinned him with hips and shoulders, pressing against the silky purple of the button-up shirt that had been teasing, tantalizing from across the table for the last half hour. “Missed you this morning.”

And, someone save him, it was true. In spite of his suspicions, in spite of what he’d seen the night before, Phil had wanted to wake up with this gorgeous young man beside him. Would keep wanting it against his own better judgement. He melted into Anton’s encircling arms, pressing his lips to a tendon in Anton’s neck.

“You look amazing today,” Phil mumbled, rubbing his cheek against Anton’s jaw. “My friends are terrible people, sitting between us. Keeping you away from me just so they can _talk_. Is as if they know I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of you.” 

Anton lifted Phil’s chin with one finger, bringing their lips together for a light, hot kiss. 

“Now they’re out there, and we’re in here.” Anton’s head tipped back against the wall. “And we have a few minutes before they come looking for us. Probably. Maybe."

“First things first, then.” Phil stepped away to fish his phone out of his slack’s pocket. “I never got that picture.”

Phil turned to lean beside Anton, arm sliding around his waist, tipping their heads together and turning his camera on the both of them. Anton snuggled in close, cheek againt cheek as they smiled into the lens, and Phil snapped a picture. He took one more when he felt Anton's head turn to press his lips against Phil’s earlobe. 

_So I’m not sending that one in. Ever._

Phil stepped away to check the results, fiddling with the screen to set the filename on the first as “backgroundcheckrequestedmyeyesonly” and pretended to struggle to set it as the contact picture for Anton to disguise the time it took to send the file to SHIELD. The second picture he stared at for a long moment, at the soft smile he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen or felt on his own face before, at Anton’s lids at half-mast while he pressed his lips against Phil’s skin like it was the nicest thing he’d ever tasted. It took nearly fifteen seconds for Phil to lose the fight with himself and set it as his background.

 _No one ever sees the screen but me._ Phil blushed as he quickly turned his phone off and put it away. _I’ll change it before Jasper sees it._

“Since we’re here, alone, not in front of my sister…” Anton caught Phil’s wrist and started walking backward. Phil trailed after, letting himself be led down the hall and around a corner into an alcove that was clearly used for storage. Anton pressed him into a stack of chairs covered with a long, white sheet. 

“You…” Anton started to speak, stopped, smiled faintly, and then pressed forward, mouth covering Phil’s. Phil clutched at Anton’s hips, needing to ground himself, needing to keep from getting strangely shaped bruises from the metal legs digging into his ass and thighs. 

“Please.” Anton panted heavily against Phil’s jaw as he ran his hands inside Phil’s jacket, pawing at Phil's ribs hard enough to make his bruises protest. They were the only things that did. “Please, touch me. Need…”

Phil’s hands seemed to have completely left his control, obeying Anton’s breathy request. They tugged at the back of his shirt, jerking it roughly out of his too-well-tailored slacks, sliding up the warm, smooth skin of Anton’s back. Fingers clutching hard, Phil shoved forward, pinning Anton against the shelf of spare dishes behind him. One hand slid down to grip Anton’s thigh, drawing it up to circle Phil’s leg, letting their hips press together. Phil groaned at the sensation of _hot_ and _yes_ that sizzled through him, leaving him shaking in Anton's arms.

Somewhere in his well-trained, professional brain, a voice that sounded alarmingly like Fury was screaming that this was the dumbest shit Phil had ever done, and what the hell are you thinking, you dumbfuck, but it was mostly drowned out by the way Anton’s breath went ragged, blowing hotly across Phil’s throat in desperate pants.

“Want you… Fuck I want you!” Anton was slurring his words, crisp Russian syllables turning muddy. “Would go to my knees right here… don’t care who’d come in.”

The words and the mental image went straight to Phil’s groin, and he moaned, biting Anton’s neck rather harder than he intended. Anton bucked against him, growling at the teeth in his skin. Phil’s brain shorted out when he felt a hand fumble at his belt.

“Fuck it.” Anton shoved enough space between them and started tugging Phil’s shirt free. 

The next two minutes were a blur of hot skin, wet mouths, and losing track of which body part belonged to which participant. Everything finally resolved itself when Anton got Phil’s slacks loose enough to slide in a hand, Phil got a hand down the back of Anton’s trousers to grip at one muscular, flexing buttock, and their mouths found the perfect angle for optimal contact.

Anton sighed blissfully, and Phil echoed the sound. 

_As long as they leave us alone for five more minutes…_

Neither of them heard approaching footsteps, so the first they became aware of an audience was when a cool contralto voice broke through their lustful daze.

“Agent Coulson! Hawkeye! We see that our services are no longer required for introductions.” Zeg leaned against the wall at the entrance to the alcove, arms crossed over their chest, a wolfish smile curling their currently unpainted mouth. “Should I cancel the room for tomorrow?”

Phil was already stepping back as Anton’s head came up, eyes blazing. 

“Agent Coulson?” All traces of Russian were gone from his voice. Anton dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, swiping away the wet shine, but it did nothing to remove the puffy redness left by Phil’s teeth. “Fuck!” 

Phil moved back another step, clutching the waistband of his slacks to keep them up as he tried to catch his breath and make sense of what was happening. Anton buttoned his pants, hands shaking as he wrestled his zipper closed over the prominent bulge he still sported.

“Wha… Anton? What the hell?” Phil reached out. “You’re not… you can’t…”

Anton’s face crumpled and he flinched away from Phil’s hand. “No. No, Phillip. Don’t be… I…” 

Phil grabbed Anton’s bicep hard, trying to find his balance as the world tilted. 

“Get _off_ me!” Anton shoved him away, and Phil stumbled into the stacked chairs, tangling his feet in the sheet and going down hard. Hawkeye shot him one wide-eyed, unreadable glance and took off, pausing only to glance back one last time before whipping around the corner.

Waarzegster stepped out of the opening of the alcove to let him pass before offering Phil a hand up. In spite of their delicate wrists, they were much stronger than they looked, easily heaving Phil off the floor.

“We’re… sorry.” Their brows were folded together, still holding onto Phil’s arm. “We didn’t expect him to bolt. Better hurry, Agent Coulson. Mustn't let him get away." 

Phil jerked his wrist free, trying to tame his pants as he hurried down the hall, finally settling for buttoning his jacket to hide the unzipped fly and the improperly buckled belt before shoving the door open to see Anton dragging his sister out the front door by her wrist. 

_Hawkeye and the Black Widow,_ Phil reminded himself. _Not Anton and Natalya._

He made his way toward the table where Jasper and Maria were standing beside their chairs looking utterly bewildered.

“Phil!” Maria froze, running her eyes over Phil. “What the _hell_ did you do to that boy?”

“I…” He considered how he must look, hair tangled from An-- Hawkeye’s fingers, tie twisted, pants creased. He knew how Hawkeye had looked running through the restaurant, equally rumpled, flushed-lipped, neck sporting a new bruise. “It wasn’t…”

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Phil pulled it out, feeling a wild surge of hope that it was Anton, calling to explain all of this. 

Instead, it was a text from SHIELD:

_Subject one Clinton Francis Barton, AKA “Hawkeye.” Not currently wanted by SHIELD. Possible outstanding warrants from other law enforcement agencies. Considered armed and lethal. Unless it directly affects current mission, do not engage._

Phil read the last sentence twice and dissolved into bitter, slightly hysterical laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Male Order Bride is going on hiatus for a week. Real life is intruding in terribly difficult ways, and I need to collect myself a bit to give everything that needs my attention the attention it deserves without sacrificing my sanity. That includes this story, because I owe all of you (and there are so many more than I EVER anticipated; you are all wonderful!) my very best writing. Plus, to readers of Two-Man Rule, I MUST have time to work on Recovery with Kathar, because we’re nearing the new season of AoS, and Phil needs his Clint back!
> 
> For further updates, please visit my Tumblr, [faeleverte](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com). 
> 
>  
> 
> **When we return: Running Away; Chasing After; and What is Real is Real**


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't understand why you ran, you fucking idiot!" Natasha stood in the center of their room, hands on her hips, refusing to join Clint in his packing frenzy. "This is so much better than we planned!"

"I don't understand why you ran, you fucking idiot!" Natasha stood in the center of their room, hands on her hips, refusing to join Clint in his packing frenzy. "This is so much better than we planned!"

"How can this possibly be better?" Clint dug a pair of socks out from under the edge of his bed, head to the carpet and rear waving in the air as he hunted for anything else that he might have dropped. "He was... And I... Oh god, Nat! I'm such a fool! Do you even... I can't believe I thought..."

He scrambled around on his knees to yank open the shallow drawer of the nightstand, scattering arrowheads, used tissues, and gum wrappers across the floor as he pawed through the mess for the things he didn’t want to leave behind.

"Don't you see? He's sure to help us, help _you_." She continued to pointedly not pack, and he paused to glare over his shoulder at her. 

"He's sure to hate me!" Clint’s hand closed over a sheathed knife, and he jerked at it. The tab for a belt hung up on the drawer pull as he lifted it out, and the drawer slid all the way off its rollers and onto the carpet. He grabbed a gun and a pair of knives off the floor and threw them in the top of his bag, leaving the rest of the former contents of his nightstand scattered about in drifts. Who needed a third-hand paperback with a split spine and a-- _huh,_ fully _empty. When did I finish that?_ \-- bottle of lube, really? "Jesus, Nat! Do you know what I was thinking? This morning! What I was thinking _this morning_! I thought he could... that he might..." 

Clint gave up explaining his vapid little fantasy that involved Phillip leaving his day job and turning their cozy duo into a cozier (for Clint, at night) trio. Nat wouldn’t understand; she’d probably be mad at him for trying to invite someone in without her input. And it’s not like it was something that would ever-- _could_ ever-- come about, anyway. He crawled over the bed to retrieve his bow from her floor cubbie. 

What he'd thought didn't matter. SHIELD was elite. And the rumors they'd heard over the past several days surrounding Agent Coulson made him sound... superhuman. Perfect. There was no way someone with that reputation would ever throw it all away to join up with a carnie with a stick. No way he would want...

 _He wanted Anton. He said so._ Clint tried to ignore the whisper, but the treacherous part of his heart that kept hoping in spite of every broken dream wouldn't shut up. 

But... Anton was a dream. Too young, too desperate, too naive for Clint to have ever been him. Anton was Ph-- Coulson's manic pixie dream girl. Boy. Whatever. Anton was a lot of things Clint had never been, and Clint didn't blame Ph-- Coulson, goddamnit!-- for wanting him. Hell, as one of the dyed in the wool, white hat hero good guys; rescuing Anton was probably a glorious bonus on this mission. 

And Clint had taken that away from him. Ph-- Coulson was going to hate him.

"Clint." Nat's voice was iron. "Put the bow away. Put down the duffle. And _sit down_ until you're done hyperventilating." 

She snuck up behind him while he wasn't looking, and he jumped when her hand dropped to his shoulder. "Look at you. Even if leaving was the right option-- which it's not-- you couldn't possibly get very far in this state."

Clint let himself be pulled down to the edge of the bed with Nat's slender, graceful, impossibly strong arms around his shoulders.

"Just sit with me until you can breathe, and then we'll figure out the next step."

“Next step is easy,” Clint mumbled. “Get out of this damned city before he comes after me.”

____

One hour after Anton-- _No, Clint Barton. Hawkeye_ \-- had pulled out of Phil's arms and rabbited with his red-headed associate in tow, Phil found himself sitting on a bench beside a lazy river in an overgrown park beside a very contrite Waarzegster. Jasper and Maria had each offered the use of their hotel rooms, but Zeg refused to hold discussions in any location they had not personally vetted. 

Phil didn't much care where his body was. He was too busy replaying the moment An-- Barton's eyes had gone wide with recognition, the way he'd pulled back like Phil was suddenly disgusting. Which did make a certain sick sense. Hawkeye’s history showed a great disdain for anything that smacked of authority, of _The Man_. And Phil, with his bureaucratic haircut and his bureaucratic suit and bureaucratic job in a bureaucratic organization was everything Barton scorned. The thought that he had, quite literally, been fucked by _The Man_ must rankle.

_Anton wasn't disgusted. He called you beautiful and said he adored you._

But that was Phillip Marcus. A businessman with money to burn and no time to spare. Someone safe and non-threatening to a free spirit full of secrets like Barton. Someone who could provide a veneer of respectability to get into a building that would play the arena to the kind of deadly game that Barton spent his life playing. That Phillip Marcus was actually Agent Phil Coulson was just a weird little glitch to whatever webs Hawkeye and the Black Widow had been spinning.

And that was Anton Vinogradov, not Barton. Anton was beautiful, frightened, lost. Needed the security represented by Phillip as surely as Phil had come to need him. Want him. _Want_ him. Want, not _need_.

"Agent Coulson?" Zeg’s gentle hand on Phil's wrist jerked him out of the tangle in his head. "Truly, we apologize for..."

Phil cut them off with a shrug. "I think that, had he not found out until tomorrow, the reaction would have been the same. Although perhaps the shock would have been _slightly_ less if we hadn’t been..." He managed to stop himself before adding _halfway to orgasm._ It wouldn’t do to give Jasper a reason to go back to using the phrase “O Face.”

"So he clearly didn't know Phil was Phil." Jasper leaned forward at the far end of the bench, and Phil hoped his blush wasn’t too noticeable. He watched a sluggish current ripple the surface of the water and tried to forget what _halfway to orgasm_ had entailed. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to blank out the touch memory of An-- Barton’s hand wrapping around his… _Not the time, Phil_

Jasper clearly didn’t notice Phil’s struggles, for which Phil was grateful. He continued, "But why was he trying to get in touch with him, with SHIELD, in the first place?"

 _He was_ in touch _. He was_ very _in touch. Why’d he run?_ Phil sighed and told his inner voice to shut the hell up already.

"We have intelligence to suggest that the Black Widow and Hawkeye were involved in the theft originally." Maria propped her elbows on her knees and her chin on her clenched fists. "Maybe they were planning on taking Coulson out to get SHIELD out of the picture for the duration of the auction. If they were getting a cut of the sale price..."

"Unlikely." Zeg smoothed their slender hands down the legs of their sharply-creased trousers. "They were unaware that the auction was to take place in Amsterdam until we were contacted to check the security of their covers." They folded their hands primly in their lap and turned to Phil. "Cover in which you played a large part, Agent Coulson."

"How does that work, anyway?" Jasper scowled at the river. "I mean, I know how Phil got in the system--” _Of course he knew, the careless ass_ Phil thought savagely-- “but how did Hawkeye end up as a bride?"

"We don't have all the details..." Phil took Zeg's tone to mean that they did know; they just weren't _sharing_ all of the details. "They were chased across most of Europe as they pursued the plans after the theft. In Russia, Ms. Romanoff discovered that some of her former associates weren't quite as, hmm, deceased as she formerly thought. Some unpleasantness ensued, and they spent several months on the run, living rough."

"Fast forward to Hawkeye looking for love or at least marriage." Phil contemplated reaching around Zeg to slap Jasper for interrupting the narrative. Not that Phil was hungry for details about Clint. Of course not. He was just... curious. Just wondered how the pieces had come together into... _this_.

"As you can imagine, airports have been watched, ships, trains. Everything, trying to recapture the Black Widow and kill Hawkeye for his part in her escape. I hear he was… _enthusiastic_ about setting her free. So they needed to leave in such an ostentatious way as to be invisible. There are many couples brought together by introduction services leaving from all parts of Europe. No one would expect Hawkeye to be posing as a boy for sale." Zeg smiled enigmatically. "And that was how Hawkeye got into the system. As for how he ended up with you, Agent Coulson, or how you ended up with him, all we can figure is that Madam Fate has quite the sense of humor."

"I am entirely failing to see the joke," Phil grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose against the oncoming headache.

"Oh, don't you?" Zeg pulled one of Phil's hands away and leaned forward to look him in the eye. The smile that curled their thin lips was oddly gentle and strangely affectionate. "Simply put, you are exactly what he would most have wanted to get and what he least would have expected to find. You're perfect for one another, darling."

____

 

“What did he do to you, Clint?” Nat felt Clint's breathing slowly settle as she stroked his hair. “Why did you run?”

This was an unexpected complication: Clint becoming so flustered that he'd clearly lost his mind entirely, scrapping the mission and trying to _leave Amsterdam_. Where the plans were. The plans they’d given up more than a _year_ of their lives for. She wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled and he acquired a new concussion, but she would hold off on that until she understood. And she might have another target for her ire, depending on what that _Agent Coulson_ had done to him in that hallway.

"Do to me?" Clint pulled away to look at her, face scrunched in confusion. "He didn't do anything. I mean, he was _doing_ things to me, but I was doing them right back. Until Zeg showed up to make introductions. One minute we were... er... I had my hand on his... I mean, we were both..."

"No. Stop. I neither need nor want details." She shook her head vigorously. “ _Please_ do not give me details.”

"So we were." Clint widened his eyes and nodded while frantically making suggestive eyebrows. She flapped her hand for him to get on with it, hoping he was done being obscene. "And then Zeg pops up and calls him Agent Coulson and calls me Hawkeye, and then I kinda shoved him, and he stumbled back and went down, and I just... I ran." Clint grabbed the back of his neck, cheeks stained a brilliant red. "So I lied to him, fucked him under false... pretenses or some shit, and then I threw him to the ground with his pants halfway down his ass. Seemed like there wasn't much left to say after that."

Nat nodded slowly. "I can see how things were... _confused_ for a moment." She blinked hard. "I don’t understand why you wanted to just… leave, though. Amsterdam. The mission. What about getting home? You do remember home, don't you? Kinda ratty? Smells like wet dog in humid weather?"

"Hell, Nat." Clint laughed, shaky and thin but real, sitting up to scrub both hands through his hair roughly. He was grinning crookedly when he looked back at her. "You make it sound like someplace to hurry back to!"

"But it's _home_ , Clint. And it's ours. And there's that great Thai place just around the corner." She heaved a sigh. He wasn’t going to like what she had to say next, but she had to say it. In the plus column, she was losing her fear that Clint would vanish into the night with this man. Clearly, the _thing_ between the two was over. "You're going to have to talk to him again. We’re stuck needing _him_ to get here. Either as SHIELD or your fake persona’s fake husband.”

Clint’s smile slipped away, and his eyes were huge in his face, and he suddenly looked exactly like his four year old self from the picture of him and his brother that he had stashed in his bow case. “Shit, Nat. He’s not gonna want to work with me! And he’s sure as hell not going to want to get _married_!”

“Fake married, Clint. The documents won’t even be in your real names.” She grabbed his bicep to pull him back to her side, smoothing her other hand over his hair. “He’ll want to find those plans before they end up with someone like the Ten Rings, so he’s sure to play ball. And _surely_ SHIELD won’t leave us stranded over here after that.” 

"How about we see if we hear from Zeg again. Find out if this mission is still on, even." Clint flopped back on the bed, narrowly avoiding braining himself on his bow case. 

“I’ll call them later tonight.” Nat didn’t tell him that she’d already texted them with that assurance. “They’re going to be talking to Agent Coulson soon, I’m sure, and they’ll tell us what he says.”

“Not making any decisions until we hear from Zeg.” Clint threw his arm over his eyes. 

“Good.” Nat patted his belly before standing to stare down at him. “That includes deciding to run away and hide. You just promised.”

Clint groaned, but shifted his arm enough for one eye to blink up at her while a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

____

Phil chose to ignore the comment on compatibility. He didn’t tuck it away to examine later. Because that would imply that he was _looking for something with An--Barton._ Or hoping. Or… something. He shook his head violently to clear it, earning him a frown from Maria and a thoughtful look from Jasper.

"So it was all just chance?" He sighed. "I hate chance. It's too random. Can't rely on it to make things work out right."

"Phil, shut up." Maria’s frown folded neatly into her concentrating scowl. "So Barton was just going to get fake-married and get out of the country. That makes a kind of sense. How did this meet the SHIELD agent thing come about?"

"That was our doing, we're afraid." Zeg patted Phil's knee comfortingly before leaning back against the slats of the bench. They tilted their pale face up toward the sun, eyes closed, utterly relaxed. Phil thought it was _nice_ that someone was calm in the face of this mess. "That night we saw you at the club, Agent Coulson. Before you left for Rotterdam. We were there to meet Hawkeye to give him some information his partner had paid us for. That was also the first night we spoke to you. The rumors about you were starting to fly, and that increased the rumors about the plans. There was clearly a connection between your presence and those plans. More than you simply being in town to collect them. We still haven't managed to ferret out all the details." A small frown creased Zeg's porcelain face; Phil had seen that same look on Fury’s face when he only had half the data. Hell, he’d felt it on his own face at some point in every mission he’d ever undertaken for SHIELD. Zeg waved one slender hand, brushing away their annoyance. "No matter, we have time to sort it out."

"Can we get back to why they wanted to meet Coulson?" Jasper had no patience for oratory; he always wanted the facts, just the facts, and preferably lined up in neat, orderly lines. Made it easy to spot the one detail he needed. And right now, he looked like he was searching for a reason to kneecap someone. 

"Knowing what we did of the history between Hawkeye and the Black Widow in relation to Brown and Richolt, we passed on the news that the plans were on their way on to Amsterdam. At that point, they decided to retrieve them themselves. Professional pride or maybe just holding a grudge.” Zeg’s bony shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. “Either way. When they learned that SHIELD was in town, also trying to retrieve the plans, Ms. Romanov contacted me with a request for a meetup. I don’t know what they wished to accomplish."

“You have your suspicions.” Maria gave them a sharp look. “But if they had a plan to escape, why…” She hummed thoughtfully. “So they found they had the opportunity to get near the auction itself, if they couldn’t retrieve the plans before then. I still don’t see what they gain by bringing SHIELD in, if they didn’t know Phil wasn’t what he was pretending to be. We’d be one more level of complication for them, I’d think.”

"That is information we don't have." They gracefully rose from the bench and dusted the seat of their well-fitted trousers. "Yet. I received a message from Ms. Romanov after we left the restaurant. She is to call us tonight. You will hear from us in the morning. Not too early, however. We have… plans this evening."

They smiled enigmatically again. “Again, Agent Coulson, I am _most_ sorry. Had I know you were… involved this afternoon, I’d have waited for you to finish before bursting in.”

“I know how that goes,” Jasper muttered, and Maria kicked him in the ankle. 

Zeg nodded their goodbyes and began to walk down the path, steps calm and slow and not in the least furtive. Phil, Maria, and Jasper sat in contemplative silence until they had disappeared around a corner in the path.

"They do know how to make an exit." Jasper took a deep breath, shaking himself slightly as if breaking a spell. "And I don't even swing that way. I don't think."

"I know I don't, and I agree." Maria turned to Phil. “You okay?”

He didn't answer, too busy trying to refocus all of his interactions with Anton under the lens of new information.

____

 

“Hey, Phil…” Maria watched Jasper step on the heel of his shoe with the insole of the other to pry his foot free. He was clearly ignoring her scowl and the way she was minutely moving her head from side to side, trying to shut him up before he got going. Phil was staring at the red socks covering Jasper’s feet, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. “So it sounds like your new _thing_ is killer!”

The blank expression that had been hovering around Phil’s eyes since he’d appeared from the back hallway in the restaurant, hair standing on end, tie loose and backward, slacks bunching at the ankles from where they hung low on his hips, still unfasted under his blazer, deepened. It spread across his face, wiping out the lines between his brows and those across his forehead, tightened the creases at the corners of his eyes.

“Jas, no.” Maria hung her own jacket over the back of the desk chair and went to lead Phil further into the room by one limp arm. “Phil, are you okay?”

“Fine.” Phil swallowed hard and nodded, not looking away from Jasper’s feet. “Just found out that my lover kills people for a living.” He scowled and added, “With his _girlfriend._ ”

“To be fair,” Maria kept her voice gentle, “your job description isn’t that much different. It must’ve come as quite a shock to him, too.”

“And we don’t know that Hawkeye and the Black Widow are, like, together.” Jasper pulled himself to the center of the bed and crossed his legs. Phil tugged his arm loose and mechanically crawled up beside him and curled into a ball, head on Jasper’s knee. In all their years of dogpiling together for comfort, she’d never seen Phil take the security position.

“They’ve been working together eight years. The average length of mercenary partnerships with uninvolved parties is eighteen months. For it to last longer, the parties either must be related by blood or marriage.” Phil’s voice was empty as he quoted the report he’d given on major international mercenaries he’d given several years back. 

“Those are _usual_ statistics.” Maria sat on the bed against Phil’s back, fingers stroking his hair and smoothing down his cheek. “Did anything about this whole situation strike you as usual? Anything about that pair?”

Phil sighed and closed his eyes, curling more tightly into himself. “An-- Barton said that she’d requested not to see us, er, _groping_ over lunch.”

“It was pretty clear what he had planned when he bolted after you.” Maria leaned her head on Jas’s shoulder, still petting Phil’s face. “She didn’t look upset. I don’t think he’d have chased after you like that if he was involved with the Black Widow.”

“I sure as hell wouldn’t,” Jasper said, reaching around Maria’s hand to awkwardly pat Phil’s shoulder. “She was terrifying when I thought she was just someone’s Russian sister. Hot, though.”

“Maybe it’s some weird game they play.” Phil closed his eyes and rolled backwards, half onto Maria’s lap. She sat up straight to give him room to fit into her embrace.

“Yeah, they might be the wildly kinky type who pick up random businessmen and then play power games.” Jasper gave a bark of sardonic laughter.

“Can you both please return all thought processes to the upstairs brains?” Maria lightly punched Jas in the shoulder. “We need to start working on a contingency plan to get into that reception, should Barton and Romanoff decide they don’t want to play ball.” She snorted at her own joke. “Ha! Ball! Like a dance!”

Phil and Jasper both twisted their heads to look at her, sublimely unimpressed. Whatever. Maria knew she was funny.

“The invitations are named; mine clearly states it’s for Anton Vinogradov and myself.” Phil pushed himself up slowly, turning to face the other two, and rubbed a hand over his face. “So unless I can get my hands on someone with the same name, I’m not sure what we’re going to do.”

“Your hands on someone by that name appears to have been the problem.” Jasper grinned at him, and Maria thwapped his arm again. “Well, maybe not your _hands_ so much as your--”

“How about Jas?” Maria interrupted. She _really_ didn’t need the reminder of what they’d walked in on the day before. “He could fake it.”

“No.” Jasper went rigid. “First off, I don’t even _speak_ Russian. Second, did you miss the part where I don’t _look_ Russian? Where I _do_ , in fact, look something quite _other_ than Russian? I am unaware that there was a sudden rise in Latino immigration to former Soviet countries a generation back, so unless the bouncers are blind and deaf, that would backfire horribly.”

“Hawkeye is deaf,” Phil said suddenly, staring at the wall above the head of the bed. “That’s not in his file. Wears hearing aids. Fluent in ASL. Needs to be added to the file.”

Maria raised an eyebrow at Jasper, trying to ask “Is he broken?” Jasper just shrugged in return.

“Phil,” Maria touched his arm, pulling her hand away quickly when he flinched. “You’re going to have to contact him.”

“I can’t call him! Maria! He threw me to the ground to get away! What part of that suggests that he’s going to want to talk to me?” He sighed and put both hands over his face, pulling his knees up and suddenly looking very small and much more lost than she had ever seen him. “I fucking lied to him. We both acted like it was… like it was real. I went and let myself be compromised by… And it was all a goddamned lie.”

“Agent Coulson!” Maria snapped the title, hoping it would jerk him out of this weirdly emotional state. Phil did _not_ get emotional. “This is a mission, and you’re going to have to put aside your bullshit and treat it as a mission. Call your contact _right now._ ”

Jasper reached over to dig through Phil’s jacket pocket, and Phil just blinked at him. That was wrong, too. Phil had laid more than one person out for getting into his personal possessions, and, even with Jasper and Maria, his pockets were considered _very_ personal. 

“Here’s your phone.” Jasper unlocked the screen with the code that Maria didn’t know he knew. “I’m going to dial and all you have to…” He trailed off and turned the screen for Maria to see.

“Give me that!” Phil snatched it away, but it was too late. She blinked at the wallpaper, at the intimate familiarity in the way Barton was kissing Phil’s ear, the soft, melting smile on Phil’s face. She recognized the clothing the two men had been wearing that day; the picture had to have been taken only moments before everything had gone to hell. 

“Oh, Phil.” Maria clutched at Phil’s hand, but he jerked away and rolled off the bed, holding his phone to his ear.

"Mr. Barton, this is Agent Coulson. If you and your partner--" Maria heard the tiniest wobble on the word-- "are still amenable to a meeting and exchange of information, my associates and I would like to hear from you." He swallowed hard. "You... you have my number." He disconnected without looking at the screen and dropped the phone back into his jacket pocket.

“Hey, man…” Jasper rose, too, going to rest his hand on Phil’s shoulder only to be shaken off.

“No, Jas. Not right now.” The tiredness in Phil’s voice made Maria’s heart hurt, but she had no idea how to express that; Phil didn’t know how to accept sympathy. “I’m going down to my own room. I just… I just need some time alone.”

____

Nat scooped up her phone on the way out of the room. 

“I’m going in search of coffee and a secure place to make the call to Zeg, okay?” She paused at the door. “No running away, Clint. You promised.”

He hadn’t. He’d only promised not to decide. Running away wasn’t a decision so much as the most sure-fire way he could come up with to avoid deciding what to do about Ph--Coulson. But he knew that Nat could track him down, if he tried, and that her _expression of displeasure_ (that’s what she always called it when he asked why she was punishing him for something) would be unpleasant, publicly humiliating, and would probably leave him without certain _important_ pieces of his anatomy. Or his bow, which would be worse.

“Yes, Nat.” Clint waved halfheartedly up from his pillow. “I’ll be good. I promise.”

She nodded crisply and turned away, pulling the door shut.

His phone started vibrating in his pocket as soon as she’d gone, and he ended up flopping halfway off the bed, trying to pull it out of his pocket. He nearly answered it without checking the caller ID, assuming it was Nat making sure he hadn’t gone out the window and scaled the building-- _That was_ one time, _Nat. Not counting the time in Budapest. Or that thing in Jackson, Tennessee. But_ anybody _would have run from that!_ \-- as soon as her back was turned. 

The picture that flashed onto the screen left Clint frozen, barely breathing, wishing he could get his arm to move to throw the damned phone across the room while he burrowed under his covers and pillows and never came out again.

Phillip’s peaceful face, framed by the crisp, white cotton of the pillowcase in his hotel room was lighting up his screen. The first hints of morning sun dusted the tips of his eyelashes into glinting gold, and brought out the thick coating of freckles that made Clint’s knees shake and his lips itch to touch. He’d taken the picture on a whim that very morning, hating to drag himself away from staring at the real-life version resting only inches from his own face and needing a reminder. What had possessed him to set it as the contact picture, well, even Clint wasn’t dumb enough to examine _that_ thought too closely. 

The buzzing stopped after an endless wait, and the screen slowly flashed back to the lockscreen, and Phillip’s face went away long enough for Clint to start breathing again.

When Nat came back an hour later, he didn't tell her about the voicemail notification.

___

Phil peeled himself out of the layers of his suit, starting to get desperate to shower and stop smelling the little wisps of An-- Barton’s-- aftershave that had been clinging to his jacket, haunting his senses all afternoon. He shucked his jacket while yanking at his tie, flailing for a moment as the two opposing gestures twisted fabric around his elbow. He was unbuttoning his shirt when he found that one was missing, ripped off by hot hands, desperately trying to get at the skin and waves of chest hair underneath. He froze, one finger lightly brushing the frayed thread.

 _I slept with Hawkeye. Didn’t just_ meet _him, I… Fuck! Six ways to Sunday, no less._ Phil’s breath snagged in his throat as he looked at the still-rumpled bed, the sheet pulled up lightly from the bottom corner where An-- Bart-- Clint-- _surely I can call him “Clint” after that one_ \-- had clawed at it in his frenzy while Phil, on his back underneath him, had fucked up into the glorious tight furnace of his body. He heard himself whine, deep in his throat, as he walked toward the bed, slowly removing the rest of his clothing.

He started to smooth the bedding, but gave up and tumbled himself into the middle of the tangled mess, arms automatically reaching out to pull Clint’s pillow to his face, inhaling deeply. 

_How much of that was an act for him?_ Phil imagined the first night at the club with Anton leaning into his space, sliding along his body, asking so hesitantly. And then he flashed to the night before, with the bold, wicked smirk that had drawn him in, the unhesitating way An-- Clint’s-- hands had roamed possessively across Phil’s body. The way Clint had bitten his way into every kiss, leaving Phil’s mouth swollen and sensitive. 

It hadn’t been Anton on the floor the previous night. Anton was more thoughtful, giving while asking nothing in return, pliable in sex, gentle. The man he’d bedded (well, stood, then floored, then walled, then bedded. And bedded. And bedded some more) had been pushy and demanding, taunting, daring. Their first time had been hot and welcome. The second time had been...

_I think I actually fucked Clint last night. The real one. He… he wasn’t hiding._ Phil inhaled deeply from the pillow again, from the faint-but-there traces of Clint’s aftershave, the spice of his skin, the tang of his sweat. _I fucked Hawkeye...and it was Uh-maze-ing!_

He nearly tripped as he shoved himself off the bed. It took longer to find his jacket in the pile of black fabric on the floor than it should have, with his hands shaking so hard, but at last Phil found jacket, then the pocket, and then his phone. He unlocked the screen and hit redial.

"Mr. Barton, this is Agent Coulson again. I... we... _dammit_..." He disconnected.

And really, what could he possibly say? _Was that you last night? And, if so, could we maybe do it again? Because I promise it was all me, too._

No. There was a mission to deal with, no matter what Phil’s libido and sudden fourteen year old tendencies toward romantic nostalgia were telling him. Right now, Phil didn’t need to talk to Clint, but Agent Coulson _really_ needed to get in touch with Hawkeye.

___

“Mars, if I look at one more of these pages that I practically wrote the first time through, I’m going to remove my own eyes with my thumbs.” Jasper sighed and shoved his glasses far enough up his forehead to rub at his endangered orbs. “Seriously, I’m starting to see double.”

She threw her own stack of paper down on the desk and stretched. “I’m inclined to agree with you. We’re not finding anything new here.”

“So what would you say to getting Malene and Phil and heading out for a bit.” Jasper flung himself sideways across the bed to avoid the piles of paper in front of him and the larger heap of folders behind. “Catch up on the gossip, get a few in Phil, and see if we can’t maybe get him to stop pouting like a jilted teenage girl.”

Maria stood and stretched again. “Provided there’s some decent inebriation in it for me and provided you can withhold all sexually charged comments in Phil’s direction, I say yes.”

___

 

Phil listened to Mars and Malene trade information about the mission with Jasper interjecting random bits of nothing. Malene knew a few agents in her own department who could play Anton, she’d bring names and files over tomorrow and… 

_She was clearly wrong; no one could play Anton. Anton was a golden creature of…_

And maybe the last couple shots of tequila hadn’t been Phil’s best idea. There was one easy way to solve the whole problem, so Phil slid out of his seat and wobbled his way toward the restrooms. Halfway there, he thought better of it and changed his trajectory to aim for the front door. Outside, he drew out his phone, taking time to trace the edge of An-- Clint’s-- jaw on the wallpaper.

"Hey, Clint. May I call you Clint? Would be weird to try to stay on a last name basis right now. I... This is Phil.” _Shit, Phil, stop rambling._ He took a deep breath and continued. “Look, I know we haven't, we weren't... This is a fucking mess. But it's not about us. I have... The job. It's about the job now. Whole mission has gone tits up. They’re trying to make another Anton. I don’t want to make another Anton. I just... I... I need your help. Please. So call me? Let’s just… We can just get over it and you can finish your damn mission and then we can all go home and just forget it. Mission. We’ll just do the mission."

 

____

Two things finally registered about his position: first, he’d been crouched down to stay out of sight of the taller building across the street for _way_ too long, and second, parking his ass on the roof of _this_ particular building probably didn’t say much about his state of mind. Or maybe it said too much. Either way, it was an incredibly dumb place to perch.

Not that Clint had a lot of choices on places to be, at the moment. Nat had breezed in from her call to Waarzegster, all bright and excited with the news that the SHIELD team would love to have their assistance. She informed Clint that Zeg had given her adequate assurances that Coulson was only interested in completing his mission objectives, and then she pointed him toward the door with only a command to "fix this."

So Clint had made his way across the city, stalling as much as he dared, arriving at the hotel just in time to see Coulson climbing into a cab with Jasper, Maria, and an unknown woman who was holding his arm far too tightly for Clint's bruised ego. He's slid out of sight until their car was gone before heading into the lobby, nodding to the desk clerk (same guy had been there twice before when Clint had arrived with Phillip and didn't bat an eye), and making his way up the back stairs to the roof access. 

Groaning as he shifted, trying to coax some feeling back into his right buttock, Clint again wished he'd been brave enough to pick the lock on Coulson's room to go in and wait. But what if... What if the dragging someone through the door and flinging clothing was Coulson's usual post-date MO? Clint didn't think he'd handle it well, watching those hands pawing at someone else. Playing professional would go out the window, and Clint couldn't promise he'd control himself enough to keep from flinging the woman after his professionalism.

He sighed and shuffled again, wondering how he'd made it thirty-five years without his nuts going numb, only to experience the sensation four times in two hours on this damned roof. He decided to risk exposure for a moment, with the shadows deepening nicely, to roll out from behind his vent and come to rest behind a wider-if-lower hunk of machinery where he could at least curl up on his side without his boots or his head poking into the line of fire from the other building.

He should have gone to the room. Coulson... He wasn't the type to just go for it with whatever came along. He'd said as much, mostly when their clothes were off, granted, but he's said it in _English_ , not expecting to be understood. He'd said it with that damned blush that contrasted with those maddening freckles, with the near-reverence of his hands as they tracked across Clint's skin. 

So sure, Phillip may have been a figment of someone's imagination, and Coulson may have every reason to hate Clint, but _Phil_ wouldn't just grab someone else to fuck. So he’d come back to his room alone this time, surely. Of course he would.

Unless...

_Where did Phil go when he wasn't with Anton?_

Clint shoved himself back to sitting, wrapping his arms around his knees to pull them close to his chest. Should have grabbed a thicker coat. Should have brought his bow. Should have…

His thigh buzzed, interrupting his mantra of woe. Of course, his phone was ringing again, and of course it was Ph-- Coulson. Again. Clint let it go to voicemail, staring at the picture on the screen until it faded to black.

Clint sat in the dark another hour. Maybe it was two. There was a voice in his head that sounded a lot like Natasha calling him a coward. He managed to shut it up by convincing himself that he'd listen to the messages in _just a minute_ , and that he'd take action based on what he heard. The next voice was telling him that he should just forget it, grab Nat and give professional pride the finger, find a different way home. That was clearly his own brain. But the little voice that suggested he go down to that room, walk in the door and demand to know what the _hell_ Ph-- Coulson was playing at, Clint didn't know what that was. Why the fuck did he even care? Dude was a spy, lying was the job description. Just because he had gorgeous shoulders, a perfect chest, beautiful eyes, and the nicest ass known to man didn't mean anything. Just because he had whispered all the things Clint had ever wanted to hear didn't make Clint special, didn't make it true. 

To shut himself up, Clint woke his phone and listened to the messages. Ph-- Coulson's voice was ragged in the first message, dragging painfully over the mention of Nat. Was he pissed that Clint had teamed up with a former Soviet assassin? But... he'd seemed to care for Anton. Strange. The second message was just confusing, cutting off before it said anything. Clint sucked in a deep breath and pressed one to play the final message.

"Hey, Clint? May I call you Clint?" 

He had to pause the playback and blink against an unexpected blurriness at the bottom of his vision. 

_God, my name sounds good in his mouth._

What did Ph-- Coul-- No, _Phil's_ \-- mouth look like when he said it? Would his tongue brush his top lip on the ell? Would his lips curve into the fake smile of a tee, or was his face too well-schooled for that? 

Clint shook it off and restarted the message. If he listened to it four more times, no one was to know. He dragged the back of his hand across his eyes and got himself under control.

Phil was right. There was a mission on, and when it was over, everyone was going to go back to their usual life. He just had to survive this mission, and then Clint could forget all about broad, muscular, freckled shoulders and tiny, shy smiles. Just a couple weeks, and it'd be like none of it had ever happened. Just get Natasha home and start looking for the next job.

His finger hovered over redial, but the screen switched to an incoming call before he collected the courage to press it. He stared blankly at Phil's sleeping face, letting it go to voicemail one more time. Wouldn't hurt anything to have one more message saved, right? No one else had to know.

___

Phil hadn't turned on the light when Jasper and Maria helped him unlock the door to his room. He hadn't removed his shoes, or even his jacket, just stumbling across the floor to fling himself face-down onto the bed. He didn't want to see the place where he'd hefted the much-heavier-than-he-looked Clint Barton into his arms, bracing them both against the wall as they'd crashed and kissed and fucked their way to the bed. He was fairly certain the carpet beside the bed would still show his knee prints from when he'd... 

_Stop!_

Phil's face was resting against the edge of the pillow Clint had slept on, and the smell brought every thought he tried to crush down boiling to the surface. They weren't all sex. Strangely, the most painful images were the smiles and the touches when they were out. The worry in Clint's face when Phil blinked awake after the attack. The way Clint had curled against Phil's chest in the shower, clinging, somehow looking both utterly lost and utterly trusting.

His arms came up to drag the pillow to his chest, and he curled around it, hoping it could keep him afloat, but he was drowning, choking, dying alone in the dark of the room. 

Pawing dampness out of his eyes-- _Fucking tequila. Get a grip, Phillip._ \-- Phil flung the pillow away and dug his phone out of his pants' pocket.

"I don't actually give a shit about the mission. Miss you. It's stupid. I'm stupid. Hell, it's not like we were, not like I was... But I just don't care. Is it... I mean, if you're with Ms. Romanoff, I guess I understand. It's not like I'm... I guess I just thought maybe you... See. Stupid. If you're not... If the mission is off, would you at least tell me? Just... just want to hear you again. Even if you're just saying... I really miss you. How ridiculous is that? I didn't get to know the real person. But I still want--" He took a shuddering breath, and the last two words came out in a whisper. "Clint, _please._

Five minutes later, Phil thought his buzz must be going, because he began to panic. What had possessed him to make that call? How could he have let his mouth run away from him like that? Cl-- Barton was going to... laugh? Gag? Mock him? Something, but seriously. What possessed Phil to think that had been a good idea? And why was his head buzzing if he was starting to sober...

Oh. His phone was ringing. 

He sat up to grab it, thumb sweeping across Clint's grinning face to answer before his brain could catch up to his hands. Pity was, no sounds came out of his frozen throat.

"Agent Coulson?" Phil shivered at the voice in his ear. The very _American-ness_ of it. How could it be so foreign and so comfortably familiar at once?

"Ant... Clint?" It was only a hoarse whisper, but it was something, at least.

"Yeah, Phil. It's me." Clint took a shaky breath and stopped. Phil took that has his cue.

"Guess you're probably ca--"

"I miss you, too." Clint cut Phil off mid-word. "So fucking much. Is it... would it be okay... I want to see you." 

_So much more than okay. Ohgodyesplease, I need to see you._ Phil managed to choke down the words and instead started with "Where are you? I'll be--" 

Clint cut him off again.

"I'm on my way to you." His words finally got Phil moving. 

He sat up, looking wildly around the room for his… his phone… _On your ear, moron_ , he told himself. Find shoes. _Still on your feet._

"I'll be waiting in the lobby." Phil climbed off the bed, smoothing his hair and jacket.

"Stay in your room, Phil. I'll be there soon." The line disconnected, and Phil stood, frozen, in the middle of the floor, staring blankly at the screen. Had he dreamt all that? Had he cracked enough to start hallucinating hearing all the words he’d wanted to hear?

A knock sounded at the door just a minute later, and Phil jumped at the sound.

____

 

Clint was out of breath from running, but he’d begun moving as soon as he hung up on Phil, fumbling phone and lockpicks together as he tried to let himself back in the now-locked roof access door. He’d nearly tripped on his way down the stairs, finally giving up and jumping the bannister as soon as he was low enough to keep from breaking a leg. He’d run down the hall, lightly as a tightrope walker, keeping his boots from slamming as he moved. He leaned one hand against the wall beside the door to Phil’s room, panting and trying to get himself together, before giving up and beating on the wood.

Phil yanked the door open, clearly trying to stay calm as he raised one eyebrow and leaned his hip against the frame. "Sooner than I expected."

"I may have spent most of the evening on the roof.” Clint leaned his shoulder on the opposite side of the door and crossed his arms over his chest to keep them from reaching out. “Promised Nat I'd try to fix the mission." He wanted to kick himself when Phil’s face closed in on itself as his gaze fastened on Clint’s face, flicking from eye to eye. _No! Not the damned mission! Felt like an ass for running out on you today. Felt like a bigger ass for not caving when I figured out about Phillip Marcus before. Should have… Want to…_ None of the words came out, and Phil finally blinked and looked down, shoulders hunching slightly

"And... Us? Is there any way to fix that?" He glanced up with an eye roll and self-deprecating grimace. "I get really honest when I'm drinking. Sorry. That wasn’t… it’s..."

"There's nothing to fix, Phil." Clint’s arms unfolded and reached out, dragging the rest of Clint forward as he stepped closer to bury his face against the side of Phil’s neck, inhaling deeply as his own neck and shoulders relaxed. "Not a damned thing."

___

Jasper pushed open the door from the stairwell and instantly froze. He’d just dropped Maria off in his room and figured that he should probably collect Phil to add to their bed, just in case. He’d been both morose and drunk when they’d left him in the doorway to his room, and that was a prime recipe for nightmares. 

Phil was back in his doorway, or still there, or something. But there was someone else with him. Someone broad and blond, wearing a leather jacket over a pair of black cargo pants. Someone who was wrapped around Phil like they were trying to meld themselves to his body. 

As Jasper watched, Phil’s arms came up to gather Barton close as he backed into the room, closing the door behind them firmly.

He shrugged and headed back up to his own room. Clearly, he needed to tell Maria the mission was back on.

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on Male Order Bride: Talking like adults; more talking like adults; and a tentative new partnership
> 
> **Next Posting Date: 19 Sep 2014 (Recovery is coming along!)**
> 
> Thanks for your patience, everyone. It’s been a WILD few weeks around here. For those that don’t follow along on [my tumblr](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com), I homeschool some of my kids. This school year has been quite an adjustment for all of us, with new curriculum, a new student, a new activity group, and me in the middle of TWO novel-length works. I might find my living room under all the clean laundry someday. _Might_. (at least it’s CLEAN laundry).
> 
> As of right now, it’s looking like Recovery will be posted **by** 22 Sep. After that, Male Order will continue into the end of October/beginning of November. November and December will see a HUGE EFFORT to finish all the mess in my WIPS folder so that I can begin You Sing Harmonies (the C/C high school AU that I swore I would never write and is currently sitting at something like 8 chapters) with the beginning of winter/beginning of the year.
> 
> In the WIPS folder is a work that was short and keeps getting longer about Zeg, a really weird not-a-ship from AoS, a filthy, Philthy little piece from all the Soccer Aid photos, a prompt fic I SWEAR I haven’t forgotten about, a strange creature with the working title “Two-Dong Rule” (I’m not even kidding; yes, it’s exactly what you’re thinking), and a couple bits and pieces that may get written or may get moved for next year. 
> 
> Thank you all SO INCREDIBLY MUCH for reading, for commenting, for coming over to play on Tumblr. You’re each and every one the reason I put this kind of mess out there. You’re all helping craft me into a better writer. You’re all helping me believe that this crazy little dream isn’t quite as crazy as I used to think it was. And you’re all very, very precious to me.
> 
> Love you all!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are we discussing the mission or are we having sex?” He could feel himself blush hard enough to heat his neck and chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (because of health issues, this was running late, and all mistakes remaining belong to me and not a bit to my lovely betas, [Selana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selana/pseuds/Selana) and [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar))

“Aww, Phil.” Clint’s voice was a soft, midwestern burr that rattled across Phil’s nerves. It mixed with the tequila Phil had drunk earlier that night, warming his stomach and kicking his previously fading buzz into overdrive. “You’re all wrinkled.” His hands brushed down the sleeves of Phil’s jacket before reaching up to lightly sweep over Phil’s hair. 

“It was a _difficult_ day.” Phil couldn’t fight the goofy smile that he felt growing on his face. This… he’d missed this. How long had it been, anyway? Sure seemed like a long time. Maybe weeks. Could twelve hours feel like weeks? He studied the face tipped close to his, looking for traces of the boy Anton in Clint’s scowl. It was strange how different they looked: set of jaw, style of hair, lack of bewildered confusion to the eyebrows. 

“‘M sorry.” Clint’s fingers kept smoothing over Phil’s jacket in a pointless attempt to ease out the creases. “For all of it. For running out on you today, for avoiding your calls, for the lies…” He trailed off, clutching at Phil’s lapels and looking down at the toes of his boots. 

“No.” Phil reached out to cup his jaw, pulling his face up so that their eyes could meet. “For that part…” He chuckled dryly. “It’s not like I can claim the moral high ground, right?”

Clint laughed gently, too, brittle and soft. He tipped his face sideways to nuzzle into Phil’s palm, and Phil’s fingers curled against the familiarity of Clint’s barely-stubbled cheek.

“But _why’d_ you do it?” Phil asked, hearing the whine in his voice. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Waarzegster had some theories, but they… I just… Why?” The whine was gone, but he sounded raw to his own ears. Cracked open for Clint to see.

“My entire last year sucked.” Clint sighed, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. He shook his head. “It’s a damned long story, and I don’t want to go over it all twice, so can we hold off until we meet with Jasper and Maria and Nat? Um, tomorrow. I’ll tell you everything. Promise. It’s just not worth saying more than once.”

Phil nodded, trying _not_ to remind himself that there was still enough evidence against them to suggest that Clint and Romanov had been instrumental in the theft at Brown and Richolt. No matter what his _feelings_ were on the matter, he couldn’t afford to lose sight of the job. An uncomfortable shiver ran down his spine when he realized that he was now alone with a world class assassin who knew his identity and who might have no reason to want him alive. Who might have every reason for wanting him… out of the picture. 

His head felt fuzzy, and Phil thought of the night he’d stumbled into Clint’s room in Rotterdam. Maybe it hadn’t been the head injury. Maybe it was just the effect of being close to Clint. 

_Maybe that was that last shot (or three) talking._

“So you really didn’t suspect anything?” Clint grinned. He pushed Phil’s suit coat off his shoulders, giving it a shake as he turned away to drape it over the back of the desk chair. He shucked his own leather jacket a moment later, dropping it to the seat of the same chair, and Phil promptly forgot the question.

Clint was wearing a sweatshirt, _far_ too tight across the chest for decency, with the sleeves slashed off to expose his incredible, overdeveloped arms. Phil was standing in Clint’s personal space before he realized he’d told his feet to move, hands sliding from Clint’s surprisingly delicate wrists, along his corded forearms, and up to grip into the meat of his biceps. 

“Oh God.” Phil squeezed his fingers into the solid muscle, stepping closer to press their chests together. “I really am a dirty old man. You’re irresistible.” 

Clint’s arms looped around Phil’s waist, knocking Phil’s hands off his biceps. Phil nearly whined in protest, until Clint made up for that unfair move by tucking their bodies more snugly together. Phil slid his arms around Clint’s shoulders and let himself cling. He _was_ feeling a little light-headed, after all. Wouldn’t do to fall over. Might get another concussion.

“I’m not really twenty-seven, you know.” Clint leaned his forehead against Phil’s and smiled, warm and crooked. “‘M thirty-five.”

“ _Really?_ ” It didn’t come out as a squeak. It _didn’t_. Phil was just, er, breathy with relief. “Oh thank God! Oh, _God!_ That makes me feel better.” Phil kissed Clint’s lips, a quick, firm brush of mouth against mouth that was motivated more by instinct than thought. “Not even ten years. So much better than eighteen! Oh, fuck, that’s a relief.”

He felt another wave of warmth, like adrenaline receding, wash over him, and let himself lean harder into Clint’s embrace.

“Really?” Clint’s face scrunched, and Phil kissed him again, just because he could and because Clint was adorable. Not that Phil would call a man adorable; that was just the tequila speaking. “I thought you’d…” Clint’s cheeks pinked across the apples, and he looked down, biting his lip.

“You thought I wanted a boy nearly young enough to be my _son_?” Phil laughed, slipping one hand down to stroke his palm along the rippling muscles of Clint’s back. “ _God_ no! Why did you lie about your _age_ , though? I mean, not that you don’t _look_ twenty-seven. Jesus, where’s your fountain of youth. Does it regrow hair?”

“If it regrows hair, I’m not letting your sexy head near it. And I lied because I was too old to be a mail order bride, otherwise.” Clint’s grip tightened on Phil’s lower hips. “I was running out of time to get Nat out of here safely. I needed… Someone had to pick me, because I would _never_ let her…” He trailed off and looked away, jaw set and eyes angry. Phil wondered where Clint was wandering in his head. A deep breath and a couple of blinks later, and he came back to the present, to Phil. He smiled tightly before tucking his face into Phil’s shoulder, pressing his ear against Phil’s neck. “Even at twenty-seven, I was pushing it. Most men who are looking that way aren’t looking for…”

Phil stepped back, catching Clint’s jaw with one hand and his upper arm with the other. He knew he was being too earnest, but the alcohol in his veins wouldn’t let him sit on the admission. “I wasn’t looking, Clint. I _swear_ I wasn’t looking. This was supposed to be an undercover mission with another agent posing as my bride, someone I couldn’t possibly be interested in as anything other than a colleague. And, instead, there was a paperwork mix up that found me a groom, and there you were. I wasn’t looking, and I didn’t know what to do when I found you.”

Clint was the one who stepped forward to initiate the embrace this time, and Phil quickly found himself breathless under the intensity of the kiss. 

“I know, Phil.” Clint pulled away to run his nose along Phil’s cheekbone, and Phil let himself relax into Clint’s grip, leaning into his broad, sturdy chest. “I figured out part of it when I saw your scars. That night in Rotterdam. You wouldn’t go to the hospital or the police. And it made sense. I just… I knew you weren’t some businessman.”

Phil backed away so quickly he hit the foot of the bed and stumbled. There was a momentary war between the booze and his coordination, but conditioning eventually won out and Phil managed to stay on his feet. 

“You knew?” He sank down slowly, glad that he was close enough to land on the edge of the mattress. “So what was…? You knew who I was?”

“No!” Clint bounded to his side and dropped to his knees, collecting Phil’s hands in his own. He pressed a kiss to Phil’s knuckles before looking up. “I mean, not for sure. I never would have guessed SHIELD. I… I thought you might work for Stark.”

 _That_... That was not what Phil expected. He blinked down into Clint’s bright blue eyes, eyes that were wide and pleading and that he could just sink into… drown in… Phil blinked again, struggling to collect his drunken, rambling thoughts. Not eyes. They were talking about… 

“Stark? Why Stark?”

“Pepper Potts is in town. She’s Starks’ right hand man. Woman. Person.” Clint kissed Phil’s knuckles again before turning Phil’s hand over and starting to trace his lips along the lines of Phil’s palm. Phil’s fingers twitched as Clint’s breath tickled the skin when he carried on speaking. “And I just wondered… But I couldn’t figure out what you were doing with _me_ , in that case, unless you’d decided to pick out a man on your trip and kill two birds with one stone. I mean…” He paused to bite at the meat below Phil’s thumb, and Phil had to stifle a whimper. “I did wonder if you were with Hammer, instead, based on that idea.”

Phil jerked his hand free with a scowl. 

“Take it back.” Hammer, though! As if Phil would be caught _dead_ in that mess.

Clint just laughed up at him before he surged to his feet to press his lips against Phil’s.

“I’m kidding, babe.” He kissed Phil’s mouth over and over, tiny pecks from corner to corner of his lips. “You clearly have too much class for that outfit. I did think you could’ve been with Ian Quinn. There’s a rumor he’s got someone here, too, which means he’s sure to show if he ever decides the coast is clear.”

Phil wrapped his arms around Clint’s back and dropped backward, pulling Clint on top of him as he went. He nuzzled along Clint’s jaw to bite at his earlobe.

“What do you think Potts is doing here?” He bit again, this time gnawing at Clint’s neck, reveling in Clint’s sharp intake of breath and nipping again before continuing. “SI is not the kind to pop up at an illegal auction for someone else’s stolen technology. Not with Stark’s brain to pick for their own designs. Coincidence or is someone else trying to involve them in this mess?”

Clint rumbled a hum in his throat, shuffling forward until he could fit his knees on the edge of the bed, before sitting up and beginning to unbutton Phil’s wrinkled shirt. 

“Nat heard a rumor, back when we were at B and R, that the plans themselves were based on something stolen from Stark. She kept meaning to head over to SI and ask around, but then they were snagged right from under us a day or so later, and we were offered another payment to get them back.” He tugged the tails of the shirt from Phil’s trousers, spreading the shirt front open and running his fingers lightly across Phil’s exposed torso. 

Phil shivered and arched under the touch. 

“And you took it?” He only sounded a _little_ breathless.

“We took it. So we were off to China, then Russia, and then things went to shit. Kinda didn’t care where the damn things came from originally, after all of that.” Clint huffed a dry, humorless laugh. “Didn’t really give a shit where they were going, either.”

“And then you got here and signed up for a husband.” Phil reached up to tug on the bottom of Clint’s sweatshirt, attempting to hint that maybe it should go. It was really only fair, at this point. “Which… I think I see how I ended up with you. I told Jas to pick the highest age range. What would I have done with an actual nineteen year old when I got here? Can you even imagine it?”

Clint’s face flushed crimson. “I’d rather not,” he mumbled, eyes sliding away, avoiding Phil’s face. “Although, I think if it’d been me, you’d probably have avoided every overture I made, offered me cookies, and sent me to bed at a decent hour.”

Phil laughed, tracing his fingers over the slowly-fading blush on Clint’s cheek. “Most likely.”

Gaze darting back to meet Phil’s, Clint grinned impishly. “For awhile there, I was afraid that was all I was gonna get, even with you thinking I was twenty-seven!”

“That was my plan all along.” Phil stroked the ridges of muscle where they flexed under his ridiculous shirt, padding Clint’s enormous ribcage. “And then you were there when I was injured, taking care of me, _worrying_ about me. I just… I had no defences against that. You weren’t supposed to be smart or kind in addition to being beautiful. Wasn’t fair.”

Clint’s smile grew, and Phil felt like he was staring into the sun after a decade in the dark, about to lose his eyes to the golden fire, but unable to so much as blink to protect himself.

 _And I_ seriously _have got to quit drinking tequila if it’s going to make me this maudlin._

“‘M glad I got you.” Phil reached up to spread his hands across Clint’s abs, thumbs tracing circles. “I’d gotten my boss to agree to get you papers to the US, for when I left. So you didn’t have to marry someone. Thought that maybe…”

“Maybe what, Phil?” Clint’s voice was soft, but Phil couldn’t drag his eyes off of the line of sweatshirt where it had bunched against the top of Clint’s cargo pants. Mostly, he couldn’t bring himself to look up and see what look was on Clint’s face.

“Maybe nothing terribly important.” Phil forced himself to look higher, quit staring at his hands and Clint’s waistband. The grin was fading from Clint’s lips, and his eyes were wide, deep, and full of things that Phil couldn’t read. “When this is over, we’ll make sure you get home, though. I promise that much.”

“Then we should figure out how to, huh?” There was no trace of Clint’s smile left. Instead, the corners of his eyes had gone tight, and his jaw was locked. “Get this done, I mean, and…” 

His words faded away, and he sighed, rubbed his hands over his face, and then looked back down at Phil. His expression returned to softness in a blink, and Phil wanted to kiss him, but Clint was too busy staring at Phil’s body to look at Phil’s face, see what he was asking for. His hands dropped to make their way down Phil’s torso, tracking along the line of each rib.

“Tomorrow, you and Nat can coordinate with Zeg and we’ll turn that meet and greet into a planning session, yeah?” Clint’s hands slid down further to trace from Phil’s navel to the top of his waistband; Phil quivered, stomach flexing at the tickle.

“Are we…” Phil shoved himself to his elbows, trying to get closer to Clint while avoiding knocking him off Phil’s lap. “Are we discussing the mission or are we having sex?” He could feel himself blush hard enough to heat his neck and chest.

“Mission.” Clint scooted back to stand before yanking his own shirt over his head. Phil groaned at the acres of skin that appeared. “But we’re done with that for now, so we’re going to go to bed. _You’re_ too drunk for the other part.” Phil hissed when Clint dropped his shirt and leaned down to pull the tongue of Phil’s belt free. Phil’s hand on his wrist stopped him.

“Clint… I…” He blinked hard, trying to get rid of the diffused focus in his vision. “I’m starting to sober up. We could…”

“In the morning, if your hangover isn’t too bad.” Clint finished unfasting Phil’s belt and moved on to the button and zip on his slacks. “Right now, you look exhausted and rumpled, and all I want is to wrap myself around you and pretend I didn’t have a junior high moment earlier today. Not that I’m sure what that’s like, since I dropped out in the sixth grade. Not much junior high in my life, even back then.”

Phil lifted his hips as his pants were tugged down, catching on his shoes at the bottom until Clint pulled those free, too. And then Clint’s hands were brushing against Phil’s skin as his boxers were adjusted back _up_ to where Clint seemed to think they belonged. _Wrong way! They belong on the floor!_ Phil sighed and gave up. 

“Come on, babe.” Clint stepped back to kick off his boots. Phil stared in blissful fascination as Clint pried himself out of his cargo pants while walking around the corner of the bed. Phil’s brain fizzled a bit when he discovered that Clint, like Anton, went commando. “Up here to the pillows, Phil. In the bed, not on it”

Phil rolled over to crawl, wobbling a bit as he did, and, okay, so maybe he was a _little_ drunker than he thought. He flopped into the cleared space as Clint pulled the duvet and the top sheet back, curling up while he watched Clint walk nakedly around the room to secure the lock on the door, check the window, glance into the bathroom and the small closet, before turning off the overhead light. In the dark, Phil listened to Clint’s muffled footsteps as he made his way back to the bed. The far side of the mattress dipped, and Phil found himself wrapped tightly by Clint’s thick arms.

“So where does this leave us now?” Phil rolled, pressing his face into the warmth of Clint’s neck, trying to hold in the sadness behind his words. Just because it was easy between them _now_ didn’t mean it would stay that way. Just because Clint was with him now didn’t mean he’d stay for long. Just because their bodies fit together so smoothly, so perfectly, didn’t mean their lives could. 

Clint’s ribs expanded incredibly against Phil’s chest before sinking back in a heavy sigh. “Where… where do you want us to be?”

“I don’t know.” Phil folded one arm to fit between their bodies, draping the other over Clint’s hip and pulling him close. His breath stuttered as his palm came in contact with the soft bareness of Clint’s ass. “I just… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“S’m I.” Clint’s voice was a sleepy rumble, and his breath stirred Phil’s hair as he kissed Phil’s forehead. “For what it’s worth, Phil, I really, really am.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Phil pressed a kiss to the bottom edge of Clint’s jaw, running his fingers sleepily over Clint’s pectorals. “‘Cept maybe for waxing this chest. Desecration…”

Clint’s soft chuckle warmed Phil all over. 

“Hey, Phil?” 

“Mm?” Phil nuzzled deeper into Clint’s chest.

“I’m glad you’re the one that came for Anton.”

Phil leaned back far enough to see the glint of Clint’s eyes in the dark. “Me, too, Clint.” He stretched up for a kiss that quickly turned soft, deep, and long. When they both finally settled back into the pillows, Phil pressed himself back into Clint’s arms, nose again pressed into Clint’s neck where the smell of his skin was heaviest. “I’m glad I got you, too.”

He felt the fuzziness of exhaustion and tequila and the warmth from the icebergs in his belly _finally_ melting away creep over him, and let himself drift away.

____

 

Zeg kicked off their shoes just inside the front door as soon as it latched behind them, alarm system setting with the brush of their long, slender palm down the control panel. Heels weren’t their usual style, but tall as they were, there were still those as were taller. And Zeg would not let anyone _tower_ over them. Heeled boots gone, the wide, floating legs of their split skirt tickled their toes, brushed the floor around their feet, snagging and fluttering free over the rough tile floor. Zeg tugged the buttons on their white silk blouse loose, releasing the cuffs last and letting it slide to the floor. The hidden zipper at their hip slid down easily, and the trousers dropped. They left their clothing lying in a trail across the floor, undergarments joining the path, as they headed toward the giant sofa and the the electric fireplace. 

Pressing a button started flames licking up behind the glass, and they pulled a thick, knitted throw from the back of the couch to drape along their body. Too cold, too tiring, to… whatever. It had been such a _tedious_ evening. _Almost_ no useful information. 

_Almost._

Zeg sighed and slipped their fingers around the edge of the side table. A bell rung, quiet and melodious, from the back half of the flat. Minutes later, mustachioed, lumbering bear of a man shuffled into the room from a narrow door hidden behind a curtain at the back of the room.

“Good evening, Basil.” Zeg pulled the throw a bit more snuggly around their shoulders. They _clearly_ should have considered getting a progress report _before_ they decided to leave their underthings strewn about the room. Okay, get Basil back _out_ of the room, pick up the mess, find something for decency’s sake. “Fetch us a glass of wine. From the bottle already open in the kitchen, please.”

“Is cold in here, Boss.” Basil crossed to the fireplace, turning up the heat with the manual dial. “You _know_ you get sick when you’re cold.” He yanked another blanket out of a nearby chest and threw it on top of Zeg as well. “Is _distracting_ , you sneezing and hacking and covered in germs when Basil’s bustin’ heads, bro. Boss. Sorry, Boss. Too thin to be healthy, anyway. ”

Zeg smiled fondly up at his sullen face. Basil had rumbled into Zeg’s world a year before, running for his life from his former boss in New York City. Some wanna-be Russian mafia don type had collected Basil for the sheer size of him when Basil was a teenager. He was big enough, even at just fifteen, that he hadn’t actually had to participate in much violence over the years. The older he got, the bigger he got, and the larger his drooping, walrus-like mustache grew. That mustache carried an air of menace, as did Basil’s ability to punch someone with a rocklike fist before they realized the hit was coming.

After years of faithful service as personal bodyguard and chief intimidator, Boss asked Basil to kill a man: the new competition in shady automobile sales (their chop shops were on neighboring streets). Basil had argued back and forth with himself all the way over. Aloud, which would have gotten him many strange looks, had it not been three in the morning. The local whores were used to people talking to themselves.

 _But I’m no killer, bro,_ Basil told himself. _Sure, people’ve gotten dead from accidents. But that’s fights. ‘M not gonna just…_

And then he’d arrived at the garage to find the “competition” upstairs in the office, nineteen years old, clearly alone, and shit-scared. Basil went from _I’m no killer_ to _Fuck Boss; I’m no child killer._ He’d had the good sense to take the advance he’d gotten for the job, the passport that lived in his back pocket, and a suitcase full of fresh-bought boxers and toothpaste ( _What? Basil has_ preferences _, bro!_ ) and just _run_.

When Basil had landed in Belgrade, Zeg had been involved in a slight disagreement with a blocky man in a suit and a second person dressed as a deranged beekeeper. Or Ebola-ward nurse. Zeg never _could_ figure out what the AIM aesthetic was supposed to reference. Basil, being a generally fair sort of person, had decided to even the odds and waded into the middle of the fight, knocked out both of Zeg’s attackers and then calmly dragged Zeg out through the side door when the shooting started from somewhere nearby.

After that, Zeg couldn’t possibly leave Basil on his own (and Zeg was between help at the time), so they took him home, hired him for his muscle and spent their mutual downtime training him to be a tolerable valet. So far, the domestic work lessons hadn’t taken, but Basil was faithful and he kept his mouth shut: two things that set him _miles_ above Zeg’s last bodyguard.

“Wine, Basil.” Zeg tried to gesture imperiously without removing their hands from under the blanket. It was… not entirely effective.

“You got it, Boss.” Basil drifted out of the room, surprisingly silent and graceful for the bulk and apparent slowness of him.

As soon as he was clear of the room, Zeg leapt to their feet, flinging the topmost blanket to the floor and clutching the throw tightly around themself. They whipped around the room to scoop up their clothing and made a mad dash for their bedroom. Two breathless minutes later, they were back on the couch, shoulders covered by a dark blue robe, legs tucked comfortably under the alpaca throw, trying to appear as if they hadn’t moved. 

Basil appeared, seemingly out of thin air, at Zeg’s shoulder, holding a glass of wine. He scowled and glared at the now-clothingless floor. “You shouda outta not gotten out from under that blanket, Boss. Still too cold for you. I’da gotten it picked up. Or left it for the morning girl.”

“I don’t suppose you will ever learn to use a tray, will you?” Zeg took the glass, lips twisted with amusement. 

“Sorry, bro. Boss. Sorry, Boss.” He shrugged. “Basil forgets. Sorry”

“It is fine, Basil. I’ve decided to consider it an endearing quirk, rather than a failure on my part.” Zeg swallowed a chuckle and a sip of wine. “So what did you find out tonight?”

“Hawkguy was seen on top of that building. That one where the SHIELD people went.” He sat down on the edge of the coffee table in front of Zeg, and they resisted the urge to roll their eyes. 

Basil was a good observer and excellent hired muscle. He was also a nonstop bully in trying to get Zeg to look after their health, and he was surprisingly adept in the kitchen. In spite of his limits as a butler, housekeeper, valet, or general servant. They really _had_ given up trying to train him. They just had remind themself so very often. 

“So that older guy with the freckles and the bruise on his head came back with his friends, all wobbly on his feet.” Basil flopped his hand around in the air to demonstrate. “And a little bit after that, Hawkguy listened to his phone. And then he listened to his phone some more. And then he broke into the door on the roof and went running inside. He didn’t come back out, so Basil came home.”

“Excellent, Basil. Absolutely perfect.” Zeg rubbed their bottom lip along the edge of the glass, eyes fastened over Basil’s shoulder on the fire beyond. “So the meeting is back on. And we have the information they need. Ohhhhh, yes, we do.”

“You gonna sell it to them, Boss?” Basil cocked his head like an eager dog waiting for a ball to be thrown.

“You could say that, dear.” They smiled enigmatically. “We will share it with them, oh yes! But only when we know they will pay us with protection.”

“But… Basil protects Boss, bro!” His face crumpled behind his ridiculous mustache, skin flushing red and eyes sullen.

Zeg sat up on the couch, reaching out to pat one of Basil’s broad, sloping shoulders gently. 

“Of course you do, Basil. We would be lost without you.” They patted again. “And that’s why we’re selling it for transportation for _you_. To make sure you come with us when we leave.”

“You mean it, Boss?” His face brightened as quickly as it had folded. “You gonna take us home?” And then his eyes darkened again just as quickly. “But… what about boss, Boss? Old boss. He…”

“You leave _him_ to us, Basil. We said we would look out for you, and we will.” Zeg thought of the backup SHIELD could provide for a confrontation with a jumped-up Russian mobster. “You keep Waarzegster safe, and we’ll make _certain_ you’re safe, too.”

Basil gave Zeg a shy, hopeful sort of smile and mumbled something about bed. “Night, bro. Sorry. Night, Boss.” He paused beside the curtain to shoot Zeg another of the same little look, and then the curtain twitched, and he was gone.

“Oh yes.” They smiled into the flames and took another drink,. “We’ll keep our promise, just as we always do. And it’s high time we establish a new base of operations.”

____

 

Jasper woke up with a mouthful of Maria’s hair, a slight throbbing in his temples, and no idea where he’d left his glasses. He sat up, stretching, scratching his chest, and yawning his way back to life, wondering where Phil was, why he wasn’t there being the pillow before he remembered.

_Phil and Barton wrapped together in the doorway to Phil’s room. Phil’s arms locking around Barton’s shoulders and pulling him through that door._

It was going to take a long time to get used to thinking of Phil and sex in the same thought. Not that Jas had any intentions of getting in the habit of thinking of Phil and sex. Together. Or at all. Wait. Stop. Not awake enough. Jasper scrubbed his hands roughly over his face to try to reset his brain. 

It wasn’t that Phil was some kind of monk or something. At least, not until the last couple of years. But he wasn’t… he didn’t… Jas had never had to _see_ it before. And he could really live without seeing it again. 

Still. _Yay, Phil. Get yourself some while the gettin’s good, man. And I will now quit obsessing over this._

The bed creaked and rattled, and Jas patted the heap of blankets that was shifting beside his hip. Maria sat up slowly, pushing her dark hair out of her face and swishing her lips over her teeth, eyes barely cracked. Jasper’s t-shirt hung loose around her thin shoulders. 

“God, I should _not_ drink that much on missions,” she rasped. “No matter how much of a sad sack Phil is being.”

“So do you think Phil is--” Jasper rubbed his hands over his face.

“I’m sure Phil is.” Mars stretched her neck to the side until it popped. “Did you see the way he looked after An-- Barton ran out on him at the restaurant? And how he was at the bar? Now that he’s got him back, I’m _absolutely certain_ Phil is.”

“I was going to say ‘alive,’” Jasper scowled at her. His scowl deepened as she reached out to poke his dimple; she took way too much pleasure in dimple-poking. “After shutting himself in a room with a known assassin.” As if he really thought for one moment that Phil wasn’t a match for someone, no matter how… muscley. Or young. In close hand-to-hand, no one fought harder-- or dirtier-- than Phil did. 

“I’m sure he’s that, too.” Mars rolled to her feet, grabbing her phone off the nightstand and pressing the icon to dial Phil. “So, you have a good night?” She said as soon the line connected, raising one eyebrow at Jas as if to say _See?_

“It was not the night I was expecting.” Jasper could barely hear Phil’s voice, so he waved Maria closer.

“Your boytoy still with you?” Mars was aiming for _bored but have to ask this question_ , but Jas snickered as the words came out closer to _give me all the juicy details._ And that was enough; he grabbed the phone.

“You need to hurry up and get up here.” Jasper snapped. “With him. So we can start the planning thing. If you’re not too busy practicing your O face.”

“Be up when we can.” Phil’s voice was muffled, but not so much that Jas couldn’t hear the amusement coloring every word. “And that’s none of your business. I have to go. Something came up.”

The line clicked dead, leaving Jas to scowl at the phone. He handed it back to Maria, still scowling. “You don’t think he’s hoping this turns into a… a _thing_ , do you?”

“It’s already a _thing_ , Jas.” Mars shook her head and sat down on the edge of the bed. And just because Jasper wasn’t interested in her _like that_ didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the way her legs stretched for a million miles below the edges of her bright teal, boyshort panties. He only admired for a moment. “I just hope he knows that it can’t stick.”

“He wouldn’t try to make it into something, would he?” He dropped beside her, making her growl at the bounce to the mattress. “I mean… what if Barton and Romanov did take the plans? What if Phil is now part of some elaborate scheme to… I don’t even know.”

“It’s Phil.” She bumped their shoulders together. “He’ll be fine. You _know_ he won’t let sex get in the way of him doing his damn job. No matter how young and pretty his boytoy is.”

He nodded slowly. “Good point. He’s probably just grabbing for all the gusto he can get.”

“He’s grabbing something, for damned sure.” She snorted. 

“I seriously hope that he keeps grabbing it .” Jas sighed heavily. “I _really_ never need to see that again.”

“Just think, Jas,” Maria stood up and started digging through Jasper’s suitcase for his spare pair of sleep pants, “if you’d stuck around last night, you could have probably at least _heard_ it happen again!”

“I hate you for that mental image.” Jasper dragged himself toward the bathroom while Maria gathered her clothing to head back to her own room for a shower. “I really, really hate you.”

____

Clint woke up foggy, confused, and chilly on the top half. He sat up quickly and found himself staring at Phil from entirely too close, so he flung himself back onto his pillows, still looking down his body at where Phil was grinning, one cheek rubbing against Clint’s exposed abs, the other covered with his phone. It made reading his words tricky, with his face smooshed between screen and skin.

“Yeah, he [still] here.” Phil winked and Clint forgot to watch his mouth for the next several words. He’d removed his hearing aids at some point in the night, and he couldn’t reach them on the nightstand without pulling entirely too far away from Phil’s nuzzling face. “... [your? door? whore?] business. I have to go. Something came up.” Clint appreciated that Phil was exaggerating the shape of the words, but, really, he was mostly just appreciating the movement of those lips. His appreciation doubled when Phil’s tongue darted out to wet his sexy, full, kissable bottom lip. 

When Phil sat up to lay his phone aside, Clint rolled to grab his ears off the nightstand. He nearly dropped one when warmth pressed against the dimple above his ass, and he realized Phil was mouthing at his back. 

“Morning,” Phil’s voice still rough with sleep when Clint could hear again. “Mars and Jasper wanted to know when we’d be up to see them.”

“Gotta get Nat first.” Clint rolled onto his back, reaching for Phil’s arm to drag him close enough to kiss. “She will want to be involved in the planning and all, and ‘m not pissing off the Black Widow.”

Phil shoved himself up to his knees, snapping his fingers. 

“That’s it!” He pointed at Clint. “That’s what I noticed and forgot about entirely too soon! I spent all day yesterday trying to figure it out.” He held both hand out in front of him, crossed at the wrist, fingers splayed to make crawly little legs. “Spider!”

Clint’s heart missed a beat and he shoved himself off the pillows to sit up facing Phil. He could _feel_ how wild he’d gone around the eyes.

“You sign?” 

_Yes. Obvious._ Phil sank back on his heels as he signed, and Clint felt his eyebrows creep higher at the ease with which Phil’s hands moved and the sardonic twist to his lips, indicating he knew how much expression counted. It was clearly familiar for Phil. _At club. You signed “spider” at Romanov._

“You saw that?” Clint scooted back an inch, not sure if he wanted to bolt or pin Phil to the bed. “But you didn’t…”

“I got distracted.” Phil reached out to touch Clint’s face, fingertip tickling where it brushed the corner of his lips. “There was something _much_ more interesting to look at. And… I didn’t want to think about the significance of you using ASL. I made a mental note to see if Russian signing was anything like.”

“Some similarities, but not the same. They’re both from French.” Clint bit his lip, trying to contain his inner nerd. “I may have a bit of an obsession with languages.”

“Your Russian had me completely fooled.” Phil shrugged, and Clint grinned at him. “Clearly you’re _good_ at languages, so you should be obsessed.”

“So you sign. As if you needed anything else to make you even hotter.” Phil’s pupils widened as Clint leaned into his space. “One more tiny piece of--” He was grateful when Phil closed the distance between them, cutting off the next word with his lips. Clint wrapped his arms around Phil’s shoulders, as if to steady himself, but mainly he just needed to finish the sentence where Phil couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. He let his touching index fingers and thumbs come together behind Phil’s head: _Perfect_.

Phil ran his hands down Clint’s sides, sweeping his palms over Clint’s bare flanks, nails scratching lightly before he broke the kiss and leaned back.

“One thing I have to ask, Clint.” He closed his eyes, tipping his head slowly forward to rest against Clint’s collarbone. 

“Yes, I’ll go brush my teeth,” Clint answered flippantly, feeling his pulse kick up further even than the kiss could explain. He didn’t want to know what kind of question could make Phil hide. If this was where they’d finally talk about when they were done with the mission, when it was all over...

“Who is Ms. Romanov to you?” And that… that was not the question Clint expected. At all. But, oh how painfully it made sense.

“No, Phil!” Clint leaned back to get Phil to look at him. “It’s not like that. She’s my partner, but only for work. She’s pretty much my sister, Phil. My _sister_.”

Phil sighed, deflating, and a shaky smile twitched at his mouth, deepening the creases at the corners of his eyes. “Oh thank God. I was afraid…”

“She knows you’re fucking me, and she’s okay with that.” _Well, mostly okay. A little freaked, but not jealous. At least not of the sex part. I hope. Because that’d be weird. And kinda gross._ Clint licked his lips, hoping that his thoughts hadn’t dented his own smile. “And now I really will go brush my teeth. Be right back.”

He palmed his cell off the nightstand and escaped to the bathroom with his still-thundering heart pounding relief through his veins. They could put off the other discussion, the one where Clint had to tell Phil he was leaving in the end, that he had a life and a sister and that he knew that someday, some job would leave him on the wrong side of Phil’s duty. 

____

 

An incoming text buzzed Nat awake, and she shoved herself up from her pillow and fished out her phone. First she squinted at the screen to check the time. She’d gone to bed earlier than usual, but she had tossed and turned, waiting to hear from Clint, waiting to hear he was okay. And then, when he hadn’t reappeared or texted her by sunrise, she’d finally slipped into deeper sleep. Of _course_ he was texting now.

 _mornin_ And of course Clint didn’t realize that he’d done something wrong by not contacting her sooner. Of course he wouldn’t think she would worry. If the roles had been reversed, he’d have been texting her every thirty seconds all night long. Protective, wonderful idiot.

Shaking her head at his lack of perception, she rolled to sitting, freeing both thumbs to type. If she ever got a message with even rudimentary grammar and punctuation from Clint’s number, she would know to track him down and save his ass. She was fairly certain that no one could abuse English that thoroughly without genuinely _meaning_ it as a code.

 **I’m so glad to know you’re alive. I didn’t worry about you all night, honestly. Why didn’t you contact me sooner? Have you spoken with him?** It was probably waspish, but it relieved her feelings and wouldn’t hurt his.

 _got busy talking. mtgs on again. B there 2 get u after i finish up here_

Nat shook her head again. She didn’t want to know what he was “finishing up.” And please don’t let him be texting during an _intimate moment_

 **Be careful.** Use protection went without saying.

 _always careful ;)_ Emoticons, Barton? What are you, twelve?

She hesitated a moment over her next message, afraid to ask. But she had to know, had to make sure Clint was getting over his temporary insanity. Just because he sounded normal in a text message didn’t mean that he would sound normal in person. But maybe his answer would… She just wanted one word, one sign that he knew, that he...

**Is everything okay with you? With you and him?**

She chewed her lip as she waited for the reply.

_evthng fine Just having fun wile it lasts_

It didn’t reassure her. Much. Maybe. But if he _knew_ he couldn’t stay, couldn’t keep this Agent Coulson, no matter how domesticated the man seemed…

She gave up the circular thinking and went to shower and wash her hair.

____

 

 _It can’t be this easy._ Phil flopped onto his back, crossing his hands behind his head. _There is no way it’s this easy._

The reveal that the charming, desperate Anton was actually a dashing soldier of fortune, stone cold assassin should have made Phil hesitate. It should have made things awkward between them, raised walls, raised alarms, engendered suspicion. Instead, it all seemed to make things between them… even easier. Clint hadn’t felt like a stranger as they’d talked the night before. He’d felt like… a colleague. A partner. A friend. Discussing the mission had been as natural as it was with Jasper or Maria, although there were fewer digressions into fart jokes or personal insults. That was actually a bonus. The addition of kissing and _touch_ made for a nice variation mission brief, too. 

Phil heard a soft sigh and looked down to find Clint standing at the foot of the bed. He smiled, shuffling his feet and glancing down shyly for a moment before looking up and holding both hands, palm up and fingers clutching at the air, in front of him, pulling them toward himself. And then he pointed at Phil. Phil’s breath caught at the intensity to Clint’s eyes.

 _Want you,_ Phil returned. _Come here_

Clint slowly climbed on the foot of the bed, eyes predatory and slowly crawled up Phil’s body, hips and shoulders swaying. The air in the room went thick, and Phil opened his mouth to be able to draw enough air into his lungs. 

_Where d’you learn sign?_ Clint sank onto his haunches over Phil’s hips to free his hands to sign. 

_Mom._ Phil licked his lips, watching Clint’s chest rise and fall with each breath rather than watching his face. _Aunt profoundly deaf. Lived with after Mom died._

 _Sorry. My mom--_ Clint shook his head. “This is not the time to talk about that.” Clint’s voice was rough, and he dropped forward to crawl up the last couple feet of Phil’s body. “I’d rather have this discussion, instead.” His head dipped down to fit his mouth against Phil’s, and Phil gasped at the contact, hands flying up to grip Clint’s ribs.

“Please, babe.” Clint’s eyes were shut, his lips barely moving far enough away from Phil’s to speak. “Please… I…”

“We don’t have long.” Phil felt it best to point that out right away. “We’ve got to get everyone collected before…”

Clint cut him off with another kiss, finishing it by sucking on Phil’s bottom lip before pulling away. “Where’re the supplies, babe? If we gotta go fast, let’s get going.”

Phil waved a hand toward the bathroom. “Back that way.”

Clint rolled off of him, grumbling. 

“Was just been in there, Phil. Better planning would….” He swayed his hips, putting on a show as he crossed the room, not looking back, and grousing all the way. He disappeared from view for a moment and there was a small symphony of rattles and thumps as he dug through Phil’s toiletries sprinkled around the edges of the sink.

“Bag right…” Phil trailed off as Clint reappeared in the bathroom door, backwards, one hand already starting to do obscene things behind himself. A deep groan rattled out of Phil’s throat before he could pull the sound back in, and he sat up, scooting toward the edge of the bed. 

“Keep yourself right the fuck there, Agent Coulson.” Clint glanced over his shoulder with sparkling eyes, bending one knee and arching his back to give himself better access. His other hand came up and a small, square, foil packet flew from it across the room to land in Phil’s lap. “Ohhhh, god.” He bit his lip and let his head loll back, turning slightly to the side to show off the stretch of his throat. “Get that on, babe. Now.”

Phil scooped up the condom with trembling fingers, ripping open the package and nearly damaging himself in his hurry to get it on. “Fuck!” Phil bit his lip and made a second-- successful this time-- attempt. “Okay, I’m ready! Just…”

Clint pulled his hand away from where it had been working and stalked across the room, his loose stride and swaying hips belying the speed with which he moved. Phil choked as Clint was suddenly _there_ , in his space, shoving him hard to the bed, and climbing over him. 

“How d’you do it, babe?” Clint looked down where he was grinding against Phil’s hip. His breathing was already ragged, and Phil panted with him. “How d’you make me want to…” His words trailed off in a helpless moan as he inched himself higher. 

Phil shouted as Clint sank down and back, far faster than Phil would have gone, but he was pinned under Clint’s powerful thighs, shoulders held down by Clint’s massive arms. 

“Ohgod. I thought I wasn’t going to have…” Clint’s words came out garbled, strung together so tightly that Phil didn’t catch a bit of it. “Jesus, Phillip, you feel so damn good. So fucking perfect. So…” His hips shifted up, whole body shaking as he moved, only to instantly drop back down, making them both gasp. 

“S’not over yet, right Phil? We’re not done yet, right?” Clint’s eyes were shut, his head thrown back, and Phil couldn’t take his eyes off the play of sensation-- pleasure and desperation and something resembling pain-- across Clint’s face. “Have a little more of this, yeah?” He was nearly babbling, already losing control as he writhed above Phil.

Phil finally unclenched one hand from where it was digging bruises into Clint’s thigh and reached up to caress Clint’s cheek, far more gently than the pounding not-rhythm of Clint’s hips. 

“I’m here, Clint.” He could barely speak past the lump building in his throat. “For right now, I’m here. I’m with you. Babe, I...”

Clint let out a strangled sob and dropped down, head narrowly missing Phil’s nose, to nuzzle along Phil’s jaw. Phil didn’t understand a word Clint said after that; he was too far gone under Clint’s sinuous hips, the sting of his teeth against Phil’s skin, the overwhelming _whatever this was_ that drove him nearer and nearer to the edge and nearer and nearer to tears. 

In short order, Phil’s hips were bucking without his control. He was growling around each breath, chest tight, hands tighter where they held onto Clint’s arms, his back, anything he could grip. Every time his fingers slid in the sweat, he found a new handhold and dug in. 

“Fuckfuckfuck!” Clint flung himself upright, hand reaching down to help himself along. 

Moments later, he gasped and shouted, and the sudden clench around Phil was much too much. Phil’s fingers tightened, holding Clint still, hips arching up and _up_ as he, too, shouted through his release. A long, breathless moment later, Clint tipped forward in an uncontrolled collapse, and Phil’s arms came up to catch him, collect him, pull him tightly against his chest. 

“We’re still here, Clint,” he whispered into Clint’s sweaty hair. “‘M still here for now. And that was the fastest fucking orgasm of my entire life…”

Clint just laughed weakly against Phil’s collarbone, and Phil held on tighter as he heard his own sadness and confusion echoed in the sound.

____

 

Malene got to her office early that morning, not a trace of hangover. Well, no _physical_ trace of a hangover. Coulson’s mood had been catching, as it were. Jasper and Maria both seemed to think that Coulson was just out of sorts because he’d suddenly lost sex. But… she’d seen his face when he was talking about Anton. She’d heard the softness in his voice, watched the way his eyes darkened and sparkled and, for the first time since she’d met him, had looked genuinely alive. She was worried about what would happen to the man if he and his boy didn’t work it out.

Also, she hoped they did just so she could meet this magical young man who’d bewitched the least romantically-inclined man she’d ever met. Second to Nick Fury, of course. But Fury didn’t count in _any_ list of actual humans with _actual_ human emotions. 

_That might be_ slightly _unfair._ Malene chuckled, fingers drumming while she waited for her computer to boot up. _But only slightly._

Jasper had given her enough new information the night before that she drew out a piece of paper, starting to sketch down notes. Some of this would need to go in the computer reports, some would be for her own consideration. That Hawkeye and the Black Widow were the security team hired by Brown and Richolt: in her report. That Hawkeye was masquerading as a mail order groom and had apparently spent the last couple of weeks getting increasingly intimate with SHIELD’s infallible Agent Coulson: her own mental file. 

“Malene,” her assistant said, sticking his head through her door, “would you like a cup of coffee?” 

She grunted and affirmative, still scribbling madly. Johan was settling in nicely after six months, remembering that she needed coffee before her morning started, deflecting the tedious phone calls when she was in the middle of something more interesting. Eh, forget him, she needed to get through this part about Waarzegster.

Johan returned a few minutes later with a coffee in each hand and a file under his arm. She nodded her thanks, taking the caffeine gratefully. 

“What’s in the there?” She nodded to the file as he sank into a chair in front of her desk.

“This shows a _third_ payment to the security team.” He handed it over, and she flipped it open to study the new paper trail from the same anonymous string of numbers as the previous unidentified payment, ending in the bank account for BWH. “Clearly, this is just added proof that Black Widow and Hawkeye were responsible for the theft of the plans.”

Malene’s mouth went dry.

“How--” _How did you know it was the Black Widow and Hawkeye?_ She swallowed hard, her throat clicking. “How did this come to light?”

“One of our analysts managed to hack through the system last night.”

Malene nodded, eyes trained on the paper in front of her as her mind whirled. She hadn’t had a chance yet to report on the identity of the security team. _No one_ in her office should have known that. The report he’d handed her certainly didn’t have that information. As far as she knew, no one but SHIELD’s field team and Waarzegster had that information. And… 

_And whoever stole the plans._

“I need to go out for a bit.” She closed the folder, making certain she lifted the paper she’d been writing on as she lifted the file. “I’m going to drop this off with the SHIELD team, and then I have a meeting to get to.”

“There’s nothing on your calendar--” Johan pulled out his phone, scowling as he pulled up the scheduling app.

“Personal, not professional.” She cut him off and stood, reaching out to shut down her computer. She pulled her coat off the back of her chair and draped it over the file to hide her handwritten notes as she collected her briefcase. “I’ll be back after lunch.”

“Is there anything else I need to do while you’re out?” Johan was looking at her oddly. Assessing. Studying her. 

“Mmm, I don’t believe so.” Malene smiled, trying to keep herself from running for the door, trying to remain casual. “I did hear that, if nothing else new comes to light, Fury will be pulling the plug on his half of the operation here. Apparently they don’t think the theft is enough of an emergency to waste SHIELD resources. We’ll see if this is enough to keep his attention.”

Once on the street, Malene pulled out her phone.

“Jasper,” Her voice was tight, afraid. “I’ve been infiltrated. Start packing up. I’m on my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: A new hiding place; making plans; Jasper gets _another_ shock to the system. Of a different sort, thank goodness.
> 
> Between the FINALLY getting Recovery posted (the last story in the Two-Man Rule series), and a not-entirely unexpected health problem (that I didn't actually expect to have crop up JUST yet...), this poor baby has been NEGLECTED. But Two-Man is over (if you haven't read it, and if you follow Agents of SHIELD at all, go read it. I think we did a pretty amazing job of fitting our ship into canon, if I do say so myself. We were also WEIRDLY prescient throughout last season). I'm on the proper medication now. And while I get loopy as HELL on this stuff right now (that's supposed to go away), I'm feeling better than I have in... possibly in years. 
> 
> So I'm back. We're back, and Male Order Bride is back on track. For right now, I cannot guarantee that I will be posting more than every other Friday. I would love to promise the world and say every Friday (I wish I was magic and could promise the whole thing tomorrow. You guys are gonna FLIP and I can't wait to share it all with you!), I am not going to strain myself like that. 
> 
> Please make sure you're subscribed or following my adventures on [tumblr](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com). Or heck, BOTH! Don't miss an update, and I WILL try to get each chapter up as they're written, betaed by my AMAZING, PERFECT, LOVELY, PEERLESS beta team, and polished up. 
> 
> THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH for all your patience, kindness and love as I've worked to get through these past few weeks. It has kept me going forward when I really wanted to curl up in a ball and just sob for a year or six.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We’re going dark until we find out if he’s been compromised.”
> 
> “We’ll contact you in fifteen minutes precisely.” Zeg’s voice was cold, lethal. “We will know all there is to know about this assistant, and we will know where your team can safely land. Do not fail to answer, Agent Hill.” The line disconnected without another word spoken by either of them.

Phil felt both stupidly proud and extraordinarily relieved that he and Clint were wearing pants when Jasper knocked on the door after their night and morning of confessions (and the hot, insanely _speedy_ sex that had left Phil quite certain he would never actually have use of his legs again). 

It had been excruciating to roll out from under Clint’s naked body, away from the heat that licked along his skin where they were lying against each other, and to drag himself into the shower. When Clint joined him under the hot water moments later, tucking close as if he belonged plastered against Phil’s chest, Phil had let himself cling. They’d stayed close, washing each other with cautious fingers, hesitant and exploratory; tiny touches that were more about intimacy than sex. Phil, unused to such things, found that the lack of sexuality actually was _more_ arousing than filthy kisses and grinding against each other would have been. 

At least, that was what he told himself to explain away the bolt of heat that went through him every time their lips met, every time their wet bodies slid against one another.

Had it not been for the intensity of their earlier orgasms, Phil was sure they wouldn’t have made it back into the main room and into clothing without _actually_ fucking in the middle of the floor. In spite of the morning sex, prying himself away from nibbling on Clint’s shoulders required every ounce of his considerable self control. Phil pulled on his suit, layer after layer going on like armor, _knowing_ he’d need the reminder that the meeting was _work_ time and not _Anton_ time: he was _really_ going to miss Anton time. 

_Not really Anton, no. I’m really going to miss_ Clint _time._ He knotted his tie, sighing to himself as he carefully tucked himself back into his Agent Coulson persona.

He wasn’t so stupid as to have not noticed what he and Clint had both been confessing to the night before. Neither was he so naive as to think that their _feelings_ changed anything between them. They had two weeks left until the reception, two weeks to flirt and play and fuck and plan, and then they would retrieve the stolen plans and their partnership would be over. Phil would escort Clint to the airport, kiss his perfect lips one more time, and say goodbye, after which Phil would board his own plane, fly home. After which, as near as Phil could tell, he would spend the rest of his life wondering exactly how he’d gotten lucky enough to have a man like Clint, no matter how temporarily. 

_Yes._ Phil smiled wryly at his reflection as he straightened the knot on his tie over the shoulder of a naked, tooth-brushing Clint. _I am_ really _going to miss Clint time._

After making a show of checking that he was _thoroughly_ dry with a nearly pornographic display of stretching, bending, and stroking over skin with a towel, Clint wiggled his way back into the outfit from the night before. The worn-soft cargo pants with the dozen or so extra pockets and the sleeveless sweatshirt looked even better, even more touchable in the morning light. The sun showed how well the pants hugged Clint’s thighs and ass, the way the shirt rippled across Clint’s shoulders. With the careful application of his once-lauded willpower, Phil managed to wait until Clint was fully dressed before shoving him into a wall and kissing him breathless. 

Things might have progressed from there, professionalism be damned, had a knock at the door not startled the two of them out of a haze of _want_. It took longer than Phil would have thought for them to untangle; somehow one of Clint’s hands had slipped down the back of Phil’s tailored slacks and Phil’s palms were spread across Clint’s chest. He’d shoved that incendiary wreck of a shirt viciously up to Clint’s armpits to allow Phil’s mouth to leave glossy trails over those peerless pectorals. They stood, foreheads resting together, panting against each other’s faces as they waited for their heart rates to slow.

They successfully pulled away at the second knock, shifting uncomfortably in pants gone tight, before Phil drew a gun from under the mattress to answer the door. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and fluffed his now-untucked shirt to hide the signs and symptoms of having had a Clint Barton attached to his face before flipping the lock and turning the knob.

“Hey, Jas.” He cleared his throat to try to remove some of the gravel and leaned against the door frame with all the casual bravado he could dig up while trying not to pant. What he most wanted was to swing the door shut in Jas’s face and go back to what he’d been doing, but that wasn’t fair to Jasper. Probably. “What news?”

“Your boy still here?” Jasper’s gaze lingered on Phil’s loosened, crooked necktie before slipping down to his wrinkled shirttails.

 _No, Jasper. He’s gone and I got myself all hot and bothered practicing kissing my reflection. What the hell do you think?_ It was hard to keep the snark in, but Phil managed. He let the door swing wider so Jas could see flushed, swollen-lipped, rumple-haired Clint Barton leaning against the edge of the desk. Thankfully, the gun he’d drawn out of his jacket when Phil had retrieved his own sidearm was now tucked away, and he was trying to look innocent. 

The faux doe eyes were far more endearing than they had any right to be, and Phil tightened his grip on the door to keep from swooping across the room to taste the expression on Clint’s face.

“Morning, Jasper.” Clint’s drawl was wicked behind his imitation sweetness. He licked his lips as if he was tasting something good and hummed contentedly. Phil couldn’t help but feel smug as Jasper’s face flushed from neat collar to the top of his freshly-shaved scalp.

“That’s Agent Sitwell to you,” Jasper snapped, but one of his dimples was still showing. “Have some bad news and a change of plans.”

“What’s going on, Jas?” Phil straightened from his slouch, both relieved and disappointed to feel the line of his slacks easing back into place.

“Just got word from Malene. Someone’s infiltrated her office.” Jasper’s usually cheerful face was tight and solemn, no trace of his dimples showing. “You’ve got twenty to pack so we can get out of here.” 

“Lobby?” Phil was already calculating the location of each of his belongings and how he could most easily herd them into his suitcases. 

“Mars’s room.” Jasper nodded to Clint. “Bring him with you. We’re going to need to get in touch with his partner, too.”

“Acknowledged.” Phil said. Jasper headed back into the hall, and Phil closed the door and flipped the deadbolt before he turned to Clint. “Mind grabbing the case out of the bathroom? And the gun in the vent in there.”

Clint laughed as he pushed away from the desk. “Figures that you’d go for the classics, babe. Have one behind that painting over the bed, too?”

“Nah. Knife up there,” Phil answered. “Gun’s stuck on the wall behind the edge of the mattress. SHIELD has this adhesive for stashing weapons in unsecured locations that lets go when the palmprint grip registers authorized users but otherwise is pretty much permanent.”

“Huh. Convenient.” Clint gave him a ghost of a smile and vanished into the bathroom. 

Phil quickly stuffed his clothing into suitcases and his hanging bag, pleased that his mother’s cleanliness lectures made it fairly easy. The only tangled mess was the heap that had begun to collect on the nightstand, and that was easily swept into the top of his weekend bag. He zipped the smaller suitcase shut and glanced around the room, looking for anything he might have missed.

“Tidy.” Clint speaking was the first time Phil became aware that he was leaning in the door to the bathroom, holding the toiletries bag. Phil blushed, wondering how long Clint had been watching, and if he’d been listening in while Phil talked himself through packing. “Got everything?”

“Think so.” Phil caught the rectangular case when Clint threw it to him, mentally cataloguing everything he’d brought to make certain it was all packed. Clint eased into his personal space and gripped his hips, spinning Phil and tossing him down to the bed.

“Good.” He climbed over Phil’s lap, eyes dark and predatory. “‘Cause we’ve got about seven minutes left, and I’d like to make use of at least five of them by sticking my tongue down your throat.”

Phil wanted to say something sensible about being in a hurry, but he found it was remarkably difficult to talk while biting someone’s lips.

____

 

Maria stuffed the last of her paperwork back into her briefcase and grumbled about her inability to ever keep the files off the floor. Her clothing had been shoved unceremoniously into her suitcase, and the rest of her belongings had been packed without any greater care. She snapped the briefcase and faintly heard her phone start buzzing. 

From inside the briefcase. 

Under the papers. 

She swore and wrestled the locks open before dumping the whole thing on the bed. 

“What?” She snapped into the phone once the call connected. It was not her most polite phone opening, but not the worst by a rather wide margin.

“Agent Hill, I do hope we aren’t interrupting you?” The smooth voice on the other end sounded more surprised than irritated, however...

“Waarzegster.” Maria backpedalled quickly. Wouldn’t do to piss off the informant who seemed to be the only person with even the faintest clue about what was happening in The Netherlands at the moment. “Sorry. I’m… sorry. It’s… we’re having some difficulties this morning.”

“We _were_ calling with a suggestion for the time and location for the meetup with Hawkeye and the Black Widow.” They cleared their throat delicately. “Although we _have_ heard that arranging a meeting for Agent Coulson and Hawkeye is… unnecessary... as of last night.”

“How did you… No. You know what. Nevermind. I don’t _want_ to know right now.” Maria took a fortifying breath and began to shove papers back in the briefcase, phone tucked securely on her shoulder to keep it from being packed again. “What I _do_ want to know is if you are aware that there’s a mole in Malene Beck’s office.”

“We know of several. None that have any connection to the current operation, or anything else active at present. Why?”

“She went in this morning, and her assistant knew a few details about the op-- _this_ op-- that he shouldn’t have. That _no one_ should have heard about yet. She was getting ready to file a report. He knew about the Black Widow and Hawkeye.” Maria locked the case and glanced around the room. A double knock on the door had her grabbing her gun out of the shoulder holster under her suit jacket. “We’re going dark until we find out if he’s been compromised.”

“We’ll contact you in fifteen minutes precisely.” Zeg’s voice was cold, lethal. “We will know all there is to know about this assistant, and we will know where your team can safely land. Do not fail to answer, Agent Hill.” The line disconnected without another word spoken by either of them.

Maria opened the door of her room to Jas and looked up to see Phil and his blond boy bride coming up from the end of the hall.

“Apparently Zeg’s involved in our evacuation now.” Maria told them all. 

“Doesn’t that figure.” Jasper smiled crookedly. “And Malene’s in the lobby, so we need to get a move on.”

____

The woman from the Dutch version of SHIELD-- or whatever she was from-- was driving a van, Jasper in the passenger seat, Maria behind them. The three of them were discussing the situation in urgent voices. Clint was ignoring them, ignoring the fact that they had no specific plan in place, and ignoring the fact that they might be in danger.

Really, who gave a damn. The last year had taught him that having plans, even _knowing_ where they were going and what was supposed to happen next didn’t matter. In danger was Clint’s standard state of being, and had been since he was… _Pshew._ That didn’t really bear thinking on. Neither of those things seemed to matter nearly as much as the fact that Phil’s thigh was pressed along Clint’s and that Phil’s fingers were tapping and stroking mindlessly along the inseam of Clint’s pants. Clint was quite certain that Phil was unaware of what he was doing. Didn’t make it feel any less good. 

Backseats were the _best_. When Phil had climbed into the back of the van, Clint had immediately taken full advantage of the situation to scootch himself right across the leather and glue himself to Phil’s side, slithering in as closely as he could. Where he belonged. 

_No_. 

Scratch that. 

Where he _liked to be._

Clint flexed his hips, suddenly drawing Phil’s attention to the situation in Clint’s pants. Phil flushed scarlet, but didn’t make any other sign as Clint began to retaliate. Their other three companions were either too tied up in what they were doing or else they simply didn’t care, so Clint pressed a bit closer and tried to make the ride less boring. He was making good progress on raising Phil’s heart rate (as measured by Clint’s fingertips shoved between the buttons of Phil’s shirt) by the generous application of teeth to earlobe when their phones buzzed between them where their pockets were pressed together, the sensation making them jump apart. Phil slid away looking guilty, and Clint scowled at him, feeling cheated. 

The three up front also pulled out their phones, reading aloud off their screens. The messages were identical: no name or number in the “from” box, and only an address in the body of the message.

Clint’s temporary address, in fact. 

He snorted, picturing what Nat’s face would look like as he led the whole parade into their tiny room. Wouldn’t she be _so happy_ to see them all.

**

Much to Clint’s amazement, Nat proved to be quite cheerful when everyone showed up. She bossed and bullied everyone into the room and toward the seats she wanted them in. The luggage was shunted neatly to the side, and Clint tried desperately not to cringe when he noticed it was all piled directly over his bow’s hidden cubby. Introductions were made, hands shaken, and risks evaluated with the same ruthless efficiency Nat brought to every mission and every fight. 

Maria and Malene were perched on the edge of Nat’s bed, Phil and Jasper across from them on Clint’s, and Nat took the chair at the desk after turning it around so she could watch everyone. Clint… Clint was in the windowsill, ostensibly to keep watch out the window, but in reality, to keep himself from doing something reprehensible. 

The reason for his temptation to misbehave, was very simple: Phil Coulson was in one of his gorgeously tailored suits and _sitting on Clint’s bed_.

That image was doing things to Clint’s libido, his judgement, and his higher reasoning skills. He’d spent over a week picturing that very thing. Nearly. In his mind, it was the _other_ suit. The one Phil had been wearing in Rotterdam. When Clint’d imagined this scenario, he mostly imagined the scene progressing to that suit ending up crumpled on the floor, the bedding a mess, and a very well-fucked Phil asleep on Clint’s back, crushing him to the bed. Wasn’t _Clint’s_ fault he had a very vivid imagination. 

As if he could read Clint’s mind, a slow blush began to tint Phil’s ears. The color seeped up from his collar, tinting his neck. Clint suddenly wondered if Nat had mentioned which bed belonged to which of them. If Phil knew his ass was parked right about the point where Clint’s thighs would have been curled against Phil’s hips, had Clint been sleeping in his usual position. As the blush deepened, Clint was sure that Phil did know. That he was picturing the heap his own suit and Clint’s pants would make tangled up together on the floor. 

Clint tried to keep his eyes off of the flush that crawled Phil’s neck by watching the front walk. Sadly, his peripheral vision was good enough that he could study everyone passing beneath the window and still enjoy the pink that crept from collar to the silky hairs at the base of Phil’s skull as he, no doubt now, was considering where he sat. 

Knowing that Phil was as affected by being here as Clint was to _have_ him was both comforting and uncomfortable; his cargoes suddenly got rather tight. Clint shuffled sideways to try to hide his crotch and went back to focusing out the window. He bit his lip and mentally scolded himself for his inability to keep his thought profession for five damn minutes when Phil was around. But… really, Phil in a suit. On his bed. That had to count as an extreme circumstance.

No one had come in the building’s front door before there was a knock on the door to the room, but Nat went to open it without checking, having not flinched even a little. Clearly, she was expecting someone. And then Clint understood the reason for Nat’s calm: Waarzegster swooped into the room, looking all too pleased with themself.

“Oh, wonderful!” Zeg smiled brightly around the room. “You’re all here!” They smoothed the front of their tight black jeans and wriggled, clearly delighted to have a whole passel of spies to play with. Jasper snorted, but he couldn’t quite seem to drag his gaze away from the shiny red lipstick that covered their mouth.

“Hullo, Waarzegster.” Malene rose and crossed the room. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Hoofdinspecteur” Zeg’s beringed hands reached for Malene’s, a smile dancing around their painted lips. “So _very_ glad to meet you at last! We have followed your career with great… fascination.”

“And I find yours most interesting, too.” Malene’s answering smile was a little vague, artfully overwhelmed. Someone had briefed her on how to flatter Zeg, obviously. “What is the possibility of my assistant being in your employ?”

“ _He_ is not,” Zeg answered with an apologetic little shrug. “Sadly. We tried for him when he was hired. He was not interested, which, thinking back, should have been a clear indication that something was wrong.”

Malene raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that everyone in my office is easy to buy?”

“Goodness no.” Zeg squeezed her fingers with one hand while patting her knuckles with the other. “But we have _many_ ways to pay at our disposal, and we can usually find something someone wants and something small enough that they’re willing to sell it. And isn’t it a good thing you went in today, of all days, to fill in that report. But, Mevrouw Beck, why was your _assistant_ willing to work on a Sunday?” They smiled enigmatically again and turned to greet the rest of the room while Clint watched Malene’s eyes linger on Zeg, looking both surprised and impressed. 

Phil glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Clint. The smile was just a tiny shift of expression that barely touched the corner of his mouth but made his eyes light up and the creases at the corners deepen, and the _intimacy_ of the look caught Clint’s breath in his throat. The smile solidified and Phil gestured with his head, an infinitesimal twitch that said “Come here.”

He promptly forgot about everyone else in the room. He slid off the windowsill to sit cross-legged on the bed, one knee just brushing Phil’s lower back. Phil shifted until Clint’s kneecap was pressing harder into his back, and one layer of tension eased out of his shoulders, dragging some of the tightness from Clint’s as it went. Everyone else in the room was talking over one another, gesturing and speculating; no one was paying Clint and Phil any attention.

Except Zeg. 

_Of course._

Zeg raised one eyebrow and very intentionally _did not_ smile. Clint tried to decide if the stare was a dare or a warning. After a frozen moment, Clint returned the lifted brow, and Zeg suddenly laughed, bright and honest and completely unexpected.

“Perfect, Mister Barton.” They nodded slowly, still smiling. “Absolutely perfect. Do keep that in mind, yes?”

Clint knew Zeg was an intentionally obstructionist bastard, but he also knew they called it like they saw it. So… What was _absolutely perfect_? Phil? Of course Phil was perfect. Clint tried to keep from reaching forward and letting his thumb brush across the jacket covering Phil’s lower back, just above where he leaned, hot and alive, against Clint’s kneecap. He failed at resisting. Phil’s sigh from the gentle touch was gorgeous, and the way his shoulders eased down the rest of the way made something warm curl in Clint’s chest. He scooted closer, reaching up to rest his palm on Phil’s shoulder. Phil’s warm smile-- _full_ smile this time-- over his shoulder made Clint grin, and he trailed the edge of his thumb along the soft skin above Phil’s collar.

Phil sighed heavily, blissfully and turned back to ask Malene a question about her assistant. Clint glanced up to find himself being glared at by Nat.

 _What?_ He signed, quickly turning both hands up and quirking his lips.

 _What’s this_ She returned the gesture, hands stiff.

 _Sex_ Clint leered at her. _Very_ good _sex_.

She shook her head, jaw set and eyes flashing. Then Phil glanced over his shoulder at Clint again, clearly curious, and Clint signed _Nothing_ before slipping his hand back to Phil’s shoulder to resume stroking the side of his neck. Nat was looking away when Clint glanced back at her, but he was fairly certain that she signed _lie_ instead of just wiping her hand across her mouth.

Zeg’s voice dragged everyone in the room back to the urgent matters at hand.

“The biggest problem we have at the moment is that this assistant can identify all of the SHIELD contingent, as well as yourself, Mevrouw Beck.” Zeg steepled their fingers and pressed them to their lips. “So we’re going to have to keep you all away from Madame Widow and Hawkeye for awhile. I can only think of one or two places where I can effectively protect all of you from discovery. So the simplest course of action is to take you all home with me.”

____

 

Three days later, Phil sat on Zeg’s sofa-- _still_ sat on Zeg’s sofa-- where he had been sitting entirely too long. He stared at the push-button-start gas fire with a _remote control_ and wondered what kind of pretentious douche had a push-button-start gas fire with a _remote control_. 

Okay, he’d actually only wondered that for the first twelve hours of his enforced inactivity. And then he’d gone to sleep on the couch, woken up with his head freezing (the rest of him was under a nice, thick blanket), and been extremely grateful for the remote control that had been left right beside the couch for him. A quick, uncoordinated mash of the on button had led to dancing flames and instant warmth. So… maybe Phil needed to see about getting his fireplace retrofitted when he got home; he’d be willing to be that kind of pretentious douche if it meant warmth without getting out from under a blanket.

Phil dug his phone out from under his thigh, thumbing a button to light the screen. Still no new messages. Still nothing but once short, dry text since the picture Clint had sent two days before.

They hadn’t actually spoken since Phil had been whisked out of Clint and Natasha’s room, along with Jas and Mars and Malene, herded into a car driven by a brick wall with a serious Brooklyn accent, and driven around for several hours. The windows were blackened so they couldn’t see where they were going, and the driver had put up a privacy screen that was also opaque. Zeg had smiled apologetically at the rest of them and muttered something about “reasonable precautions” before coaxing Maria into a conversation about Fury, who Zeg had apparently become fairly well-acquainted with several decades before.

Finally, they were herded back out of the car and into this house. And there they stayed. There were two guest rooms that Zeg had offered to the two women, assuring Malene that all the toiletries she could need would be found in the bathroom between the two rooms. Jasper had the spare servants’ room next door to the walrus-mustached driver (who had turned out to be a valet-of-sorts named Basil). 

And Phil ended up with the couch. 

It was a comfortable couch, and the remote-control fireplace was a nice addition, but sleeping on the sofa meant that Phil couldn’t really go to sleep until everyone else had retired. And they kept sitting around the room going over and over all the information they had already gone over until was worthless. Phil found his patience wearing thin. All he really wanted was to curl up with his phone and exchange a few ~~filthy pictures~~ text messages with his boyfriend. 

In the firelit room, Phil studied the picture Clint had sent, apparently one snapped by Natasha when they were sitting on top of a building, waiting to see if someone or other showed up. Clint’s accompanying message hadn’t been very clear. The picture, however, was perfect: shadowed background and shadows across the spikes of Clint’s hair. The bright light from somewhere below lighting the edges of Clint’s perfect lips. The patience of Clint’s relaxed body belied by the tightness to the corners of his eyes. Phil wanted to reach into the screen and stroke his fingertips over every inch of him.

If he’d known that those five minutes out of seven that Clint had wanted to use (that stretched into about fifteen minutes of embracing) were the last they’d be able to kiss, touch, hold each other close, rock their hips together in a deep, filthy grind, slide their fingers inside clothing to slip along...

_Wait. Where was… what…_

Oh, yes. 

If he’d know that was the last chance for days that he'd have to kiss Clint, he’d have taken a full twenty minutes. Possibly pressed Clint down to the carpet, given them both rugburn to carry around. Certainly bitten harder across that neck, those shoulders, down one of those arms. Left deep purple bruises instead of the delicate pink marks he _had_ left. Just a little reminder.

Phil checked his phone again, restarting it just to be _certain_ , and then scrolling back through all the old texts from Clint. For the first two days, the messages had come thick and fast and full of personal comments. Next, there had been a long string of less personal messages with bits of information pertaining to the case-- mostly just who all was in town, where they were staying, and what local people they were talking to. Those had been shared with the team, to be added to the careful reports from the Black Widow, where they were all discussed and dissected to death before everyone gave up for the night.

And then the picture came, two nights ago.

The following evening, after everyone had gone to bed, Phil had taken a minute to fire off a text to Clint suggesting that maybe they could try exchanging pictures of a _different_ sort. He _might_ have started it off by removing his own shirt and sending a selfie from where he was lying on the couch. It might have included words of a provocative nature. 

He hadn’t gotten an answer. 

Phil dropped the phone and went back to staring at the flickering, weirdly-blue gas flames, trying not to think of anything. Trying not to wonder if it was his forwardness, his absence, or his shirtlessness that had kept him from getting an answer. Trying not to think of what Clint could be doing right that moment that would keep him from replying.

Trying not to worry.

Trying _desperately_ not to feel.

____

 

Clint was exceptionally tired of the stupid game of Duck, Duck, Goose that he and Nat seemed to be playing with everyone that rolled into town for the upcoming auction. Zeg had casually let slip into a conversation that they had hired the Black Widow and Hawkeye for an unrelated matter. So far, no one had batted an eye about them being in town or being in Zeg’s employ, so they were getting a quick tour of Who's Who in illegal weapon manufacturing as Zeg sent them from place to place to look at each new arrival. Nat was filling in reports that got sent to Zeg and, presumably, back to little international collection of spies they were harboring. Clint texted Phil his own observations.

Zeg promised Nat they would not have to keep ducking and ducking forever. They said that soon, very soon, Clint and Nat would get to say goose and lead someone on a merry chase, as a general distraction and to see who else it made nervous. Clint was looking forward to that. Had been looking forward to that, anyway. 

Right up until they finally got the command to goose and run.

They were going to get to blow shit up, thank god. Clint was ready for the noise and the destruction to crack through some of his tension. The delay in the mission was making him twitchy and snappish. Now he was going to get to make something go _BOOM_. He wished he could have Phil there when he did; hey, Clint _knew_ he made a nice explosion. Wouldn’t hurt to show off a little something besides his skills with his tongue, right?

Speaking of his tongue, If he’d known those last few minutes before they'd left Phil's room were the last time they'd touch, he’d have spent a bit more time on it. Especially after the way they’d rushed through the fucking that morning. Could have gone to his knees for Phil, gotten him back up and ready to go, dragging him as close to the edge as possible with nothing but tongue and lips. Then he’d have spread himself over the bed and let Phil slide straight on in. There’d have been enough lube on the condom to make it work, after their earlier session. Clint could have just wrapped his legs around Phil’s hips to pull him in hard, stroked his fingers over Phil’s cheeks, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, pressed them against the sharp vee of Phil’s top lip…

That was when Clint fumbled a detonator and decided he should probably try to keep his mind out of Phil’s pants and focused on what he was doing. He was also willing to grant that some of the fault might have been his own, but he couldn’t help being bored when he was supposed to be listening in to people speaking a language he didn’t understand.

He’d finished rigging an explosion that would create a lot of noise, a lot of smoke, and very, very little structural damage and dragged himself into the vents outside the room where the latest batch of weapons-manufacturing hopefuls were gathered to keep an eye on things until time for his little distraction. Nothing interesting appeared to be happening in the room showing on the wee monitor of Natasha’s tiny spy computer, just a bunch of people only speaking Korean while they stood around a hotel room.

Clint rolled to his back, braced the micro computer on his chest, and tried not to doze off.

Twenty minutes later there was a knock on the door, and a couple of people from-- _For Christsake, really?!_ \-- AIM were admitted. Some guy in a suit with one of their deranged beekeepers in tow. Clint wanted to walk right then, because nothing _ever_ went well after they appeared. He texted as much to Zeg, but Zeg had replied that Phil needed all the details of this meeting in particular. That alone had been enough to keep Clint in his hidey-hole, all attention glued to what he could see and hear of events in the room. 

At least the people inside the room had switched to French at that point. French was slightly less tedious than Korean, because Clint could at least occasionally pick out a word or phrase. It might have all been just fine, had _that message_ from Phil not come in right then. The resolution on the computer screen wasn’t quite enough to read lips, which meant he didn't have much to focus on, meant it was easy to get very caught up in staring at the picture on his screen of Phil's bare chest and bedroom eyes. He hadn't even managed to read the message that accompanied the picture.

He was going to answer. He _was_ , right there in the middle of his operation. He was perfectly prepared to pull up his own camera app and show Phil just what kind of effect that picture had on him. He'd forgotten there was a meeting between a dicey group of North Korean officials and a couple of dicier weirdos from a failing-to-be-secret supervillain organization. Basically, the only thought Clint was left with was something about needing some friction _right that moment_.

And then the gunshots started. 

Well, that was one way to get refocused on the immediate. Clint fumbled his phone, computer, and the protein bar he hadn’t gotten around to eating back into his backpack. Figuring that a distraction wouldn't be terribly effective if everyone who was supposed to be distracted was dead, Clint interrupted the argument going on in the room with the delicate application of C4. 

In the chaos of fire alarms and panic that followed, Clint made certain his masked self crossed in front of several cameras. He was very effectively chased for several blocks, until Zeg's driver, some walrus of a guy (and Clint meant that description in size, mustache, and the ability to inspire terror in anyone sharing a small space with the guy), pulled up in front of him to offer a lift.

Walrus Guy proceeded to scold him all the way back home, the words rolling on and on, even though he was taking the long way.

"Why you let 'em get the guns out, bro? Boss wants them all alive when they get to the auction. Except for the ones who'll try to kill Boss, of course. You see that, right, bro? But you were supposed to distract them _before_ they start shooting shit up, bro. Warn ‘em all off a little and let ‘em know they’re not really wanted. Might make ‘em antsy so they don’t see what Boss is doing once we all get there." 

Clint tuned him out and watched the streets roll past, occasionally sticking his hand in the pocket of his backpack to caress his phone. He just wanted to dial, listen to Phil's voice answer the call, and then rage about how fucked up everything felt right that moment. He'd have climbed out of the car without a word had Walrus Guy not said the one thing that could possibly have gotten through to Clint.

"You want I should tell Phil something from you?" Walrus Guy-- Basil, guy's named Basil-- was turned in the seat as much as his muscular bulk would allow to give Clint a sympathetic kind of look. "Basil makes a good messenger, bro, and Phil lately seems like he needs to hear from you, yeah?"

"Tell him..." Clint wasn't sure why it was suddenly so dusty in the back seat of that car. "Just tell I want to see him. Soon. Before the reception, if we can. Alone. And..." Clint trailed off, switching to sign and hoping Basil couldn't understand. _Miss you. Hurt._

"I'll tell him, bro." Basil's smile transformed him from angry beach-walrus to cuddly cartoon-walrus. "You just keep the gunfire down next time, yeah? Not good for Boss's blood pressure, bro."

The next day, the day after getting the picture from Phil (and if Clint had taken his phone into the bathroom with him before his shower the night before, that was his business fuck off Nat I'm just horny) Clint still hadn't answered. He wanted to. He’d wanted to take a picture of the end result of his ten minutes of staring into picture-Phil's eyes, but he didn't have a hand clean enough to pick up his phone. He wanted to call Phil and find out if he was as hot on the phone as he was in person. Clint wanted to demand they meet to try, in person, that thing that Phil’s text had suggested he do with his tongue.

It certainly wasn't the picture or the suggestion of filthy, depraved sex acts that kept him from responding. If he thought that he had a chance of hearing Phil's voice actually _say_ the words he'd typed, he would have dialed right then, right there, Nat be damned. But Nat was there. And Phil _wasn’t_. And Clint...

Nat asked him why he kept checking his phone, and Clint… lied. 

Oh, he told her the truth about the picture Phil had sent, and his stated reasons for sending it. Clint let her mock him for how long he’d taken in the bathroom _before_ he started the shower the night before. He even confessed that the sex was mind-blowing and he was going to miss it when the whole thing was over.

But he didn’t tell her that the thing that had sent him over the edge was the softness to those gorgeous blue eyes, the warmth to smile curling the edges of Phil’s perfect lips, or the thought of what it would felt like to curl against that hairy chest. He didn’t tell her that he wanted to see Phil-- even if he couldn’t touch him, even if they had to stay dressed-- and that he wanted it to happen _right now._ He didn’t tell her he’d already fallen, hard and permanently, and he didn’t tell her his heart was already breaking. 

It would only worry her for no reason. He knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t believe that he could care for someone and still choose her. No one had ever chosen her. Sure, Phil was gorgeous and perfect and smart and hot, but Phil wasn’t Clint’s _family_. He didn’t _need_ Clint. It’s not like it was a _difficult_ choice, no matter how hard the leaving would be.

So he kept his expression neutral as he dashed off a casual, dismissive sort of answer to Phil’s suggestion of sexting, explaining how busy he’d been and that they’d talk again soon. And then he quietly and privately hoped like _hell_ that he’d find a minute alone to send a proper photo reply. Or, better yet, that he’d get a chance to see Phil again before the reception, preferably in private, where they could discuss the tongue thing. In _depth_. 

Before the mission ended. And they both had to go home. 

Before Clint wouldn’t see Phil again.

____

 

Jasper knew he’d always liked Malene for a reason. She was the one who had come up with a fairly clever, exceptionally simple cover story about having a lead on an old case and having borrowed SHIELD's agents to track a suspect into France. To further their cover, Zeg had said that they hoped to track the team to Paris and offered a generous reward for information that led to contact. 

_In_ France. 

It served to siphon off much of the bottom layer of security for the various groups in town for the auction. Everyone wanted to try to creep up on unsuspecting SHIELD agents. Maria complained about not actually being in France to "greet" them. Violently. Jas suspected that she was simply tired of sitting still. 

For his part, Jasper was _mostly_ content for the time being. It wasn't often that he got to take a vacation, mid-mission particularly. Waarzegster was generous and gracious as a host, and all they asked in return was the most basic level of gratitude and manners. And, when it came to free food, no one was more grateful or polite than Jasper, please, thank you, you're much too kind. Basil prepared and served most of the meals, so Basil got the bulk of Jasper’s friendliness. Zeg smiled approvingly and saw to it that Basil always had a midnight snack on the counter, just for Jasper.

In spite of the pleasant surroundings, in spite of the well-stocked nosebag, after five days of cooling their heels in Zeg’s little hidey hole (ha! Little! Right! Five bedrooms and enough space that the collected spies hadn’t yet killed each other) Jasper was starting to get a bit irritated. He found himself fraying at the edges, just a bit. Just enough to be noticeable. Two things had gone from _starting_ to grate on his nerves to making him twitch and twitch hard.

First and foremost, no one but Zeg and their mustachioed manservant actually knew where they were. The GPS on everyone’s phone didn’t work here, and there was no good view from any of the windows to suggest anything more than “kinda hilly” outside. Zeg apologized for the inconvenience of blocking their satellite signals, of course. They explained that they _must_ protect themself and Basil. They _did_ offer their personal line to let everyone report to their organizations.

The second thing getting under Jasper’s skin was Phil. He was cross and short-tempered, and he couldn’t seem to quit dicking around with his phone. As the two primary people who texted him were sitting the room, Jas was forced to conclude that Phil was waiting for a message from someone _else_. And, given the deepening of Phil’s scowl every time he sighed and slid the phone back in his pocket, there seemed only one person he could be waiting for a message from. One person that he clearly _hoped_ to hear from. One person that was just as clearly _not_ messaging.

Apparently frequent sex over the week before they got stuck in Zeg’s house had spoiled him. 

Maybe Phil was just going stir crazy and starting to take it out on everyone around him. Jas found himself hoping that was the case. Hoping that Phil’s short answers and glares were just a result of the lack of something to do. Hoping Phil hadn’t gone that sappy over some guy he’d only known a few weeks. And that was probably it, really. God knew _Jasper_ was about to start shooting the expensive vases around the place, just for something to do besides eat.

Even if the food was awfully good.

____

Waarzegster found themself rather _frustrated_ with Agent Coulson and his pining. They could understand his enchantment with the handsome and dazzling Clint Barton. They understood that he was starting to chafe from the forced inactivity and the _hiding_ ; Agent Coulson was _not_ the sort of man to enjoy cooling his heels while letting someone else do all the work.

 _And we should be ashamed of ourself for wanting to ask Barton if that holds true in_ all _regards,_ Zeg thought. _But we aren’t._

And so, after five days of listening to Agent Coulson bite the heads off of his friends, ignore Zeg, and be impossibly, unforgivably rude to Basil, Zeg was going to Do Something About Him. All rumors had said that Coulson was unflappable, polite to a fault, charming, and always on-task. For him to be so far outside that persona suggested that something was very, very wrong. And Zeg was fairly certain they knew what that something was, as well as how to fix it.

Zeg swept up the dingy little back staircase to Barton and Romanov’s room, stepping carefully to keep from dragging their pantlegs against the stained, odiferous carpet. It was really past time to get the duo out of the little hellhole and move them to one of Zeg’s safehouses. They would have to send Basil to assist Ms. Romanov with the packing tomorrow. Planning would be easier if everyone was together. 

“Ah, Hawkeye.” 

“Waarzegster.” Barton was waiting outside his door for them, just as the message Zeg had sent commanded. 

“We have an assignment for you and Agent Coulson.” Zeg smiled at him, trying to keep their expression vague and all-knowing. Really, they just wanted to giggle. “You will both need to pack for an overnight trip.”

“What kind of assignment?” Barton shifted uneasily, folding his arms over his most-impressive chest and squinting. “And why Ph-- Coulson and I?”

Zeg decided to be blunt and see what happened.

“The two of you need some time away.” They smiled gently at him. “He is not doing well right now, your Coulson. You will only have one night, but we will provide you with a secure location and food.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Barton was instantly on alert. “What’s happened to him?”

“Nothing has _happened_.” Zeg sighed. “He’s just very short-tempered. Very tense. Fix him, Clint. He’s… He needs you to relax him a bit. Just patch him back together long enough to get through this mission.”

“And what do I tell Natasha?” Barton’s expression had shifted, shoulders looser, mouth softer. “Do I tell her I’m needed so Phil can get laid? That’s not gonna go over too well.”

“Don’t worry about the Black Widow. We have need of her skills this evening, and we’ll keep her busy until you’re already gone.” Zeg gestured toward the door to the room. “You just collect what you need to get through one night with your lover.” 

 

____

Phil leaned his head against the window, watching the… watching the darkness, he supposed. There wasn’t really anything _else_ out the window to watch. He had to hope that Basil was actually taking him the direction he’d been told to drive, that Zeg hadn’t sent him off to _dispose_ of him, or get him out of the way. Or whatever it was that Zeg was capable of doing or having done to someone. Not that Phil wouldn’t deserve it; he’d knew he’d been difficult the last few days. 

Giving up on trying to figure out where he was, Phil closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the headrest, and tried to focus on his breathing to calm the nerves that were making his stomach squirm.

Nervousness was a ridiculous reaction at this point, surely. It had only been five days since Phil had last seen Clint, after all. And the night and morning they had spent together had been rather intense, with the talking and the talking and the… more talking. A small voice in the back of Phil’s mind reminded him of the fucking, too. As if he’d forgotten it. 

As if he could _ever_ forget what it had felt like to stroke his palms up Clint’s stomach while he’d gyrated his hips like some kind of exotic dancer, impaled on top of Phil, pleading for more: more sex, more time, more _Phil_. As if Phil would ever forget the words Clint had whispered: 

_S’not over yet, right Phil? We’re not done yet, right?_

Or how Phil had tried to reassure him with _I’m here, babe._

Okay, so maybe there was _some_ reason for nerves. It wasn’t as if he was used to being an object of desire, of lust, of… of _hunger_. No one had ever made Phil feel quite the way Clint did. So it wasn’t entirely his fault that he didn’t trust it. That he was uncertain if it was true, or lasting or…

_It’s not lasting. We only have one more week._

Still. What if Phil got there and Clint had only wanted to see him to break things off? Not that there was anything to break off, of course. It-- this thing between them-- wasn’t a relationship. They weren’t _together_ for anything more than the mission. Than the length of the mission. For one more week. 

_Oh please don’t let him be breaking up with me._

Phil went back to counting his breaths, trying to get his heart and lungs under control. At least the image of Clint saying “It’s been great but no” had been more than adequate for the task of getting his traitorous dick back to behaving. He slapped his hands over his face and tried to argue his stomach into keeping its contents. It seemed to be a winning battle. 

At least something was going right. 

And, if Zeg hadn’t sent Phil away to disappear, and if Basil wasn’t lost, and if the message that was dragging Phil away into the dark had really come from Clint, then maybe it was going to end up being an okay sort of night.

_Who’m I kidding? If I don’t get to do anything but stare at him from across the room, it’ll still be the best night I’ve had in nearly a week._

____

Clint paced around the room, bare feet first sinking into the plush rug and then slapping quietly across the hardwood floors and back. He’d wanted to shower when he first got to the house, strip down and spread himself across the sofa to wait for Phil to arrive. But, even though Zeg had assured him the location was entirely secure, Clint didn’t trust the space around him. The only concession he’d managed toward comfort, toward domesticity, was removing his boots and his socks. 

_Weapons, check. Food, check. Condoms, check._

It was the twelfth time in the last thirty minutes that Clint had gone over the list. Not that he had needed to go over the list the first time. Zeg’s place was well-stocked, and the driver had been more than willing to stop for Clint to pick up the other (hopefully) necessary supplies. But he was restless and impatient and…

 _Terrified. Just say it, Barton._ He sighed and threw himself down on the couch, slapping both palms over his face. He needed to get himself under control. Clint’s doubts and hesitations weren’t going to change what had happened or what was going to happen. Maybe Phil regretted fucking Clint; couldn’t change that now. If Phil was going to break things off, then he’d do just that. And if he was pissed about Clint not having texted back before, well, Clint would apologize and hope.

Looking around for something to do, he leaned down to grab a boot and pulled a knife out to check for nicks. He’d just run the blade along the side of his thumb when there was a knock at the door. Before he could roll to his feet the lock clicked open, and there stood the answer to every question Clint had ever asked. 

_Phil._

Rumpled, chin scruffed with a couple days of whiskers, shirt unbuttoned one button too far (Clint bit back a whimper), and wearing a pair of jeans that showed off his thighs, Phil leaned in the doorframe, hands in his pockets, dragging Clint’s eyes down to his hips. And his well-packaged package. Clint’s mouth started to water, but he pushed that down and forced his gaze higher. Phil was looking back, pupils already wide, eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. He looked as if his last week hadn’t been much better than Clint’s.

He was also the most gorgeous thing Clint had ever seen. 

Clint wasn’t sure he was breathing as he dropped the knife to the floor, distantly grateful that it landed on carpet, hopefully protecting the point. He stumbled forward, barely making it two steps before he was stopped by Phil slamming into him, arms clutching around Clint’s shoulders, breath hot and loud and shaky against his neck.

“Phillip.” Clint made his own arms work to circle Phil’s waist as he wiggled in close. “Phil, oh god. Fuck!”

“‘M here, babe.” Phil’s voice was thick, and Clint wanted to look up, see what expression he was wearing. But he couldn’t get his nose out of the side of Phil’s neck. Couldn’t stop breathing him in. “God, it’s good to see you.”

Phil pulled away, and Clint wanted to protest, but before he could find breath, Phil’s mouth was covering Clint’s. It might have been two minutes or twenty when Clint finally managed to pull pull his lips free, but his hips were still mindlessly rutting against Phil’s thigh in desperate little twitches.

“Not that I don’t want to _fully_ explore this idea, but do you think maybe we could eat something first?” He rested his forehead against Phil’s collarbone, spine bowed to fit himself into Phil’s embrace. “I was too wound up to get much down earlier, and it’s been a stupidly busy few days.”

“Of course, Clint.” Phil stepped back instantly, and Clint went with him, unable to let go entirely, pressing Phil against the wall beside the door and leaning into his chest, nibbling along the side of his neck. “You might find it difficult to eat like that.”

Clint laughed, soft and dirty, leaning in harder and looking up through his eyelashes. “Depends entirely on what I want in my mouth.” 

The scarlet flush that instantly covered Phil, collar to hairline, was the best thing he’d seen in way too long. 

_How the fuck do I give this up?_ Clint wondered to himself as he pressed in for another kiss.

____

“Clint?” Nat’s voice echoed through the dark as she stepped into her room with Zeg following closely behind. “He’s....”

“He’s not here.” They squeezed her elbow gently as they flipped on the light. “We had… another assignment for him tonight. Something only he could do. With Agent Coulson.”

Nat’s face blanched, and Zeg guided her to the edge of her bed, coaxing her to sit and perching themself beside her. Her eyes were huge and vulnerable, and they slipped their arm around her shoulders.

“What did you…?” Nat shoved the encircling arm away. “You _can’t_ leave them alone together! Waarzegster! Where are they?” She tried to stand.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Romanova!” Zeg replaced their arm about her shoulders and pulled her close to their side. “They’re both fine, perfectly safe, and we will have your partner home to you before lunch tomorrow.”

“No! You’re not understanding!” She was shaking, and Zeg smoothed a hand over her hair. “They _can’t_ be alone together. We’ll lose him. Coulson will _take him away._ And then, when Coulson is done with him, when he leaves him like everyone else has done, Clint will be _alone_. And this time, I won’t be there to take care of him. To put him back together again. To keep him _safe_.”

Zeg hugged her tighter, surprised that she was letting them embrace her, but relieved at the implied trust. “We can understand your fears, but… you have nothing to be afraid of. _Nothing_. Hawkeye would not do that to you. Wouldn’t choose someone over you. Never. And he’ll be back with you in just a few hours. We’ll get him back to you in one piece.”

They kissed her hair gently and released her.

“Sleep, Natasha.” Zeg rose. “It will all work out, we’re very certain.” 

She barely seemed to hear their goodnight, and they let themself out, pausing once in the doorway to look back at her straight back and lost expression. They sighed, hoping they hadn’t made a terrible miscalculation. But Hawkeye was not so difficult to read, and Agent Coulson was easier still. They’d only misread one person before in their life, and that had actually worked in their favor. And would again in New York.

They smiled nostalgically all the way down the steps and out of the lobby. Basil was waiting out front with the car. 

“Hullo, Boss. Everything okay with the pretty lady?”

“We think she will be. She doesn’t believe that right now, of course.” Zeg shook their head as Basil opened the rear door of the car. They slid inside and waited for Basil to make it back to the driver’s seat before asking how his earlier assignment had gone.

“Yeah, Boss.” Basil grinned into the rearview mirror. Well, Zeg assumed he was grinning; the mustache took up most of the glass, and it _appeared_ to be a happy mustache. “Phil was delivered safely, and Hawkeye was waiting on him. They got so wrapped up in each other, they left the door hanging wide open. Didn’t even shut it before they were getting all handsy. Seemed pretty happy to see each other, if you know what I mean.”

Zeg sighed, fingers drumming on the door handle.

“Sooo…” Basil drew the word to its breaking point as he swung the car onto the street.” Why you even _doing_ this, Boss? Matchmaking, I mean. Seems kinda… out of character.” 

“Imagine how much easier life will be if we don’t have the Black Widow and Hawkeye out there to be hired by just anyone!” Zeg hummed thoughtfully. “Giving them some extra incentive to work for SHIELD will ensure that happens. And knowing that we can do that by making them both _happy_ instead of by making them dead. It gives us hope, Basil. Perhaps the world isn’t _quite_ as terrible as we have long thought.”

They met Basil’s eyes in the rearview mirror and shrugged, trying to hold in the delighted laughter they could feel bubbling up. Basil’s scowl was a question without words, and Zeg gave up, absolutely giggling as they answered.

“And just think how _happy_ Nicholas will be to get those two for new recruits!”

____

 

Phil nosed along the scorching heat of Clint’s spine, not feeling the cold air on his own back. He burned where he was pressed against Clint as he stretched up to press another kiss into Clint’s shoulder. Hot as his own mouth was from where it had been moments before, Clint’s shoulder still felt hotter under his lips.

 _Really? Is this man always on fire?_

Beneath him, Clint sighed and shifted restlessly, already slick with sweat from the hour of teasing, of touching, of tasting. Phil had driven himself half-mad, mouthing at Clint’s body, licking at every sensitive place, biting bruises into the muscles of those perfect shoulders, the incredible arms and thighs, into that perfect ass. An _hour_ of that delicious torture, but Phil couldn’t bring himself to move things along. They had been granted just the one unexpected night, and Phil didn’t want to rush a moment.

He settled down to work over the thin skin behind Clint’s right ear, panting for air as he worked _himself_ into a frenzy. His hips twitched and twisted restlessly as he rubbed against the swell of Clint’s ass. Clint rumbled a sound like a purr and unfolded one arm from beneath his head, reaching down to clutch at Phil’s thigh, his fingertips digging in hard enough to drag a sob from Phil’s throat. 

“Jesus, Phil!” Clint’s whisper was ragged. “How the hell did I survive? Hasn’t even been a week, and feels like too damn long without…” He trailed off in a long groan as Phil bit his jaw.

It _had_ been too damn long without. Phil tried to imagine what it would be like to actually get _enough_ of this, of sex with Clint. Of Clint pinned beneath him. Of Clint writhing against his lips. Of _Clint_ , full stop. 

_What would constitute_ enough _, anyway?_

That was a question without an answer, because Phil _wouldn’t_ get enough Clint. One night wasn’t going to do anything but make his longing, his _need_ worse. God, he’d thought it was bad wandering around with his dick half-hard all the time before that first time. Now that he _knew_ what it was like to press into Clint’s tight heat, to move in tandem with the power of Clint’s amazing body... 

Well, it made the wanting and not _having_ worse. So much worse.

Phil’s breath caught in his throat, making him cough as he thought about there being only one week left, and Clint’s fingers slipped against Phil’s hip before tightening again.

“You with me?” There was a thickness to Clint’s voice, a wetness that sounded like Phil felt.

He reached shifted aside to roll Clint, to press their chests together and kiss Clint’s lips, bitten red from where he had spent an hour trying to keep from shouting down the walls. Lamplight glittered on dampness gathering at the corners of Clint’s eyes, and Phil kissed his lashes, tasting salt.

“I’ve got you, babe,” Phil whispered against Clint’s temple as he eased into place and Clint’s legs came up to circle his hips. He caught his breath and buried his face against Clint’s neck as he finally, _finally_ slid home. Clint’s sigh evaporated sweat on Phil’s shoulder, creating a swath of coolness, but everything was sensation, and every sensation was good.

“Just like that,” Clint whispered, hips twitching up fitfully.

This was likely to be their last chance to be together, their last night, and Phil wanted to make it count. He held his breath and held himself still, nuzzling at Clint’s cheekbone, listening to Clint’s breathing, waiting for it to even out before he rocked his hips forward the last inch and then pulled back for a harder thrust.

One more week, and the mission would end. They would shake hands with one another, politely, in front of their coworkers and teammates, and board planes for home. Phil had one moment where he wondered where Clint’s home actually _was_. But he knew it didn’t matter; they would both go back to their homes and their jobs and their lives. And then they would not see each other again.

Clint mumbled Phil’s name, nails scraping across Phil’s shoulders and back as his hips snapped up, legs slipping higher to tighten against Phil’s lower back. The shift around him made Phil whine and roll his spine again, harder this time, knees digging into the mattress and fingers curling around Clint’s sweat-slicked shoulders for leverage. 

He wouldn’t get enough of this, and it wasn’t because they only had a week left. Even if he DID get to keep Clint, he couldn’t possibly get enough. There was no _enough_ of Clint Barton. A week with Clint under his hands, his hips; a year with Clint above him, shouting curses and blaspheming; a lifetime with Clint in his bed, in his arms, in his heart. None of it would be _enough_.

“Want you,” Phil mumbled into Clint’s chest. “Need enuffa you.”

“All of me, babe.” Clint’s back bowed off the bed, Phil’s weight on his chest be damned, as a particular thrust hit just right. “Fuck yes! You have me you have me youhaveme…”

Words eventually failed, and they both mumbled nonsense, babbling half-formed words that broke into growls and shouts. Clint’s thighs jerked Phil in hard with every thrust, and Phil tried to climb inside Clint’s skin as they moved together, hearts thundering and limbs beginning to tremble.

It was a relief when Clint arched again, clenching and spreading hot wetness between them. He raked his nails hard across Phil’s shoulders, and that dragged him over the edge too, Brain shutting off as he came. Neither of them were aware that they’d added three extra words to the shouts of each other’s name as their brains fizzed and blanked, as they dropped into each other and the mattress beneath them. 

Besides, everyone knew it didn’t count if it was said during sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Reunited and it feels like we have entirely too damn many people in this place; Jasper gets an indecent proposal; and we all know those boys can't keep their hands to themselves (when there's a map with little toy soldiers to push around)
> 
> In the meantime, if you're looking for a little more with Waarzegster, check out [A Pirate and A Mercenary Walk Into a Bar (A Love Story)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2419433/chapters/5352275). An unusual-appearing pairing, and it's related to the Two-Man Series (part of the Two-Man Verse), but it **can** be read as a stand-alone.
> 
> I cannot (and you cannot) thank Beta Kathar enough for her rush job on his this chapter. Also, if you're not reading her Washed Ashore, you're missing out. The action is gearing up, and it's gonna be one HECKUVA ride from here to the end!
> 
> While I'm hopeful that things are easing up and letting me write more, I'm not making any promises. HOWEVER, I have gotten the entire outline fixed, solved, and written out entirely.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door closed behind him, and Phil stood in the now-empty hall, trying to figure out how he could possibly be acting like himself when he felt like someone entirely new.
> 
> ____
> 
> It had only been three days since Phil. Three days since Clint had slammed him against the wall and kissed him breathless _just one more time_ before turning to leave without another word. Only three short days, and, in spite of frequent texts (now with pictures!), Clint already was starting to feel as if he was drowning again.

Phil studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror, watching the droplets of water glitter as they trailed down his shoulders, dampness flattening his chest hair into strange whorls. He _looked_ the same. To his own eyes, anyway. Same healing scar on his forehead from the encounter in Rotterdam, stitches now removed (too soon, according to Mars, but they _itched_ ), and most of the bruising faded to nearly-invisible greens and yellows. But he felt entirely different after his overnight with Clint: unsettled, off-balance. Uncertain. And at the same time excitement bubbled in his chest, and he couldn’t help the hint of giddiness that tingled at the corners of his lips, sped up his heart rate.

Emotions and half-formed thoughts twisted together, making it damned near impossible to sort out what he was feeling, what _exactly_ had happened. Why it had happened.

Why _had_ Clint asked for Phil to meet him, anyway? According to Zeg, Clint had wanted to discuss the upcoming op, but their plans hadn’t come up once. Had Clint lied to Zeg to get some time away, or had Zeg lied to both of them in some play of their own? The whole seventeen hours they were together, Clint never mentioned the mission, the plans, or the reception. Perhaps Phil should have just asked Clint what was up, but there hadn’t been a lot of talking. The first thirty minutes were spent staring at each other while they ate, and then it was a race to get naked.

All words spoken after that didn’t have much meaning. Well, not much meaning outside of their relationship, and _that_ had nothing to do with stolen weapons plans, Zeg, _or_ their teammates.

When Phil had been delivered back to Zeg’s house the following afternoon, he’d gotten some very pointed looks; Malene smirky and amused; Zeg intolerably pleased with themself; Jas and Mars trying too hard to be blank, but clearly concerned. Clearly they all knew what Phil had been doing. _Who Phil’d been doing._ Jasper and Maria kept pushing for _why_ Phil had gone. How he’d convinced Zeg to let him go. Where he’d met up with Clint and where they stayed.

Phil didn’t actually know any of those answers. 

To be completely honest, Phil didn’t give a damn about how it had happened. He’d heard Clint’s name and agreed, grateful to find one more night with Clint, one last chance to be together. One last opportunity to work him over, to drag an orgasm out of him, to whisper words of adoration into that golden skin. To confess, quite accidentally, that he’d gone and fallen in love in the course of three weeks. 

Remembering that sent a shiver down Phil’s spine, and he was swept away into his own thoughts. About Clint. About Clint naked. About Clint naked and panting, writhing under Phil’s hands, shaking against and around Phil’s tongue. 

_Stop!_ Phil told himself, trying to get his libido under control. He’d just _finished_ his shower. And he really needed to be able to zip his jeans before he left the bathroom. He brushed his teeth and smoothed his hair, letting his mind drift until he was ready for the day. Toiletries collected, he swung the door open and stepped into the hallway and right into a pajama-clad Jasper.

“Shit, Phil!” Jas leaned against the doorframe, rubbing the place on his shoulder where it had collided with Phil’s bicep. “Just because you’re the big man whose dick is getting all the action doesn’t mean you _actually_ own the world.”

“Sorry, Jas.” Phil rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “Wasn’t paying attention. My sleep patterns are all fucked up.”

“You miss your boy?” Jas teased, his smirk and the new-growth dusting of whiskers on his cheek emphasizing his dimple. “Got used to sleeping with company?”

Phil snorted, carefully ignoring the first question. “I don’t think that five not-consecutive nights is enough to get used to much of anything.”

“Is when it feels good.” Jasper shrugged, and then grinned impishly. “And it’s not like you sleep alone all that often back home, since you’re usually with me and--.”

“Aww, Jas!” Phil interrupted him, throwing one arm around his neck and drawing him in, free hand stroking over the velvet fuzz on Jas’s scalp. “Are you inviting me into your bed? I never knew you felt that way!”

_You don’t feel that way, and neither do I, and it’s just not the_ same _, Jas. With you and Mars, I’m safe at night. With him I’m in bliss._

Swallowing down the words, Phil wriggled closer to Jas, plastering a fake leer on his face. “Come here, baby. I’ll make it good for you!”

“Please, like you could handle this!” Jasper grabbed Phil’s hips and shoved, bracing his shoulder against the wall for leverage, and Phil was forced to sling his other arm around Jas’s torso to keep from being pushed away. They were both snickering as they wrestled, Jasper trying to free an elbow to get in a decent hit, Phil trying to keep his weight balanced while he fought to get a leg looped around Jasper’s thigh. He lost himself in the comfortable familiarity of wrestling with his best friend.

“If you’d only told me sooner about your secret passion! Think of all those wasted dates with women you could have avoided!” A knot of tension that Phil hadn’t really been aware of carrying suddenly unwound in his chest. No, it wasn’t the same, but it was okay, and it would be enough. Later. When they all went home. 

He smacked a noisy kiss to Jasper’s cheek, laughing at the grunt of displeasure it elicited. 

“Get off me, you dick!” Jas stamped his bare foot on Phil’s instep and then swung his knee up, aiming for Phil’s thigh.

“Get off on you?” Phil managed to dodge Jasper’s kick and stepped in closer still, arms sliding up and tightening to an actual headlock. “So forward!”

Jasper took advantage of having his arms unhindered to punch Phil in a kidney and kick him in the back of the knee. Gasping, Phil whirled, growling as he threw his whole weight at Jasper, pinning him flat against the wall.

“Phil? Is there a reason you’re humping Jasper’s leg?” Maria’s voice from the end of the hall broke into their fight, and they both froze guiltily before collapsing into laughter, their heads resting on each other’s shoulders. When they finally surfaced, they looked up to find Maria with her most disapproving expression on her face, eyebrow raised in a way they both knew meant she was desperately trying not to laugh.

“He... asked me to sleep… sleep with him,” Phil explained between wheezing breaths, flinching when Jas elbowed him in the ribs, but unable to stop laughing. “What? You _did!_ ”

“Like hell, asshole!” Jasper shook himself free, shoving out from under Phil’s arm. “I just pointed out that he frequently sleeps with both of us.”

A snort from behind Maria had her stepping aside to show Malene smirking at the two of them.

“I knew _Phil_ liked men, obviously,” she said to Maria, face drawn in mock-serious lines belied by the twinkle in her eyes, “but I had no idea Jasper was into them, too!”

Phil looked up to smirk at Maria as Jasper sputtered and flushed, but she was watching Jasper, lips thin and eyes intent.

“Not… not like that. I mean… we sleep together. But it’s all of us and…” Jasper gave up and thumped his head back against the wall. 

Malene dissolved into giggles as she turned to go in search of breakfast, and Jasper looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. Maria stared at him for a long moment before she snorted and reached out to pat his cheek. 

“You’re both ridiculous.” And she turned to follow Malene in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Why _am_ I friends with you assholes again?” Jasper rubbed the back of his neck, leaning heavily against the wall.

“It’ll be okay, Jas.” Phil patted his shoulder consolingly. “And you’re with us because no one else would sleep with you. In a nonsexual way.”

“I hate you.” Jasper shook his head at Phil as he finally headed into the bathroom. “But it’s good to see you acting more like yourself.” 

The door closed behind him, and Phil stood in the now-empty hall, trying to figure out how he could possibly be acting like himself when he felt like someone entirely new.

____

It had only been three days since Phil. Three days since Clint had slammed him against the wall and kissed him breathless _just one more time_ before turning to leave without another word. Only three short days, and, in spite of frequent texts (now with pictures!), Clint already was starting to feel as if he was drowning again. 

_What the_ Hell _have you done to me, Phillip?_ Clint stood in the shower, forehead against the wall, unable to work himself to orgasm. He twisted his wrist experimentally and then growled and banged his head twice against the tile before letting go and breathing deeply.

The problem wasn’t even that Clint was horny and unfulfilled. _Unfull-of-Philled. Heh._ Okay, that was part of it. Every time he thought about that night and the next morning, he found himself getting hard. That first orgasm had been so mind-numbing that Clint was pretty sure he’d never get it up again. And then he’d woken up to find Phil’s mouth wrapped around his cock, which of course led to round two. That one finished with Clint sliding off the bed to land with his shoulders on the floor, ass still the edge of the mattress and Phil catching himself against the windowsill. He kept the rhythm, even as the sudden shift in angles made everything electric and dragged them both off a cliff. Round three took place in the shower just one hour before the car had picked up Clint. Phil was on his knees, gazing up adoringly, and that was the point where Clint gave up and admitted to himself that he was genuinely lost. 

It hadn’t even been the fact that Phil was good with his mouth, his tongue, his hands. _Although holy fuck! Was he good with all his parts!_ It was the look on his face as he knelt, eyes blinking slowly against the water, hair plastered to his forehead, heat from the water making his freckles stand out. It was the way he was completely relaxed, utterly content to have his knees digging into tile as he offered Clint pleasure, even though Phil himself was done for the day. His thumb hadn’t stopped stroking the edge of Clint’s hip, and Clint could have _sworn_ the man was smiling while he sucked. So Clint had slid his fingertips along that sharp-edged jaw and bit his lip to keep from spilling his feelings and saying _love_. Again. Like he had the night before. Like he had that first time in Rotterdam. The way he had in Phil’s hotel room. 

_Maybe it’s just Phil,_ Clint thought. _Because I sure as fuck haven’t been able to stop saying stupid shit while we’re fucking, and I’ve never had that problem with any_ other _lover._

That was a depressing thought, that Phil could already be so deep under Clint’s skin. Because no matter what his dick said, in spite what his mouth said while Phil was making Clint feel so damned good, he couldn’t have it. Couldn’t have Phil. Not to keep, anyway. It was going to come to a halt so soon: four more days until they said goodbye.

He should have listened to Nat. From the very beginning, she’d reminded Clint that he needed to keep some distance, hold onto some perspective. She knew him well enough to know that he was a sucker for a little bit of kindness. But, dammit, Phil wasn’t just kind. He was hot and fun and smart and… 

_And he told me he loved me._

Clint choked down a sob and grabbed the shampoo. When he got out of the shower, he was going to apologize to Nat for his temper over the last couple of days and get her to start nagging Zeg about the next step of the mission. The sooner this was over, the sooner they could all go home. The sooner he was home, the sooner he could get busy trying to forget the softness in Phil’s eyes as he’d finished swallowing and slid back to stare up at Clint like he was some kind of something special.

____

“Phil?” The sound of Maria’s voice was the first indication that she had stepped out into the courtyard. Phil had gone out to run around the perimeter a few times to get a little exercise in, work out a few of the kinks in his muscles. 

He’d managed two laps before he ended up standing still and staring at his noon-shortened shadow, mind blank of any thoughts he’d admit to in public. No one needed to know that he allowed himself impossible daydreams. No one _ever_ needed to know that those daydreams were domestic and soppy. At this rate, at least he wouldn't have to take a second shower.

“What is going on with you?” Maria slipped up next to him and slid her arm around his shoulders. “You’ve been so-- Honestly, Phil. I don’t even know how to describe how you’ve been.”

“I’m in love with him, Mars.” Phil heaved a sigh. “I know that’s not possible. And that even if it were, it’d be the dumbest shit I’ve ever done. And I know that all I’m doing is acting like… What the hell am I doing, Mars?”

She hugged him hard, pulling his face down to her shoulder. 

“Damn, Phil.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Is that why you keep fucking against orders?”

“I don’t think those orders count anymore.” Phil put his arms around Maria’s narrow waist and buried his face in her hair, inhaling the warm scent of _Maria_ that was always familiar and comforting. “Nick gave them when he thought Clint was an at-risk twenty-seven year old Russian boy. Turns out Clint’s a thirty-five year old sniper and assassin who can certainly take care of himself, so I have lost any guilt I felt about it.”

“Fair enough.” Maria shrugged. “Relief isn’t the same as being in love, you know.”

“Well aware,” Phil replied. He let go of her and pulled away, shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “That started before I knew he was a thirty-five year old American merc who occasionally shows up on SHIELD’s person of interest list.”

“If you’d known before, would it have made things better or worse?” Maria’s hand was warm on the small of his back, and he pressed against it, glad that she was still offering him comfort. Grateful she wasn’t yelling at him the way he deserved.

“I don’t actually know.” He sighed again as her arms slipped around his waist from behind and her head leaned against the side of his. “I think that, however we’d met, I’d be kinda lost for him.” He waited a minute, letting that sink into his own thoughts, waiting for her to answer. “So are you going to yell at me and tell me I’m an idiot and that I have bad taste in men?”

“You have excellent taste in men, Phil,” she answered dryly. “Those arms alone… Wow. Way to go. Nice score and all that. But… He does sometimes appear on SHIELD’s person of interest list. And what happens when he shows up on our suspect list? Do you really want to have to arrest him on a date? Do you really want to become a target to him? Can you imagine what that would do to _him_?”

“I know,” Phil snapped. “I _know_ all that. And I know it’s almost over, and I know it’s going to hurt like hell to give him up. But I will, okay? I’ll let him go, and I’ll get over it.”

“Phil…” Maria’s voice was very gentle, and she tightened the hug. “You are an idiot. But you’ve got me, and you’ve got Jas, and I’m not gonna yell at you.”

He turned around to pull her into a real hug, relaxing in her embrace. “Thanks, Mars.”

“We’ll take you out, have a few drinks, find a questionable rebound lay, and you’ll be fine.”

He was proud that he managed to hold in his shiver at the words “rebound lay.” Nothing had _ever_ sounded less appealing, and he’d experienced SHIELD cafeteria food, torture, and having to tell Nick Fury he’d gotten a blowjob from his cover.

“That should about fix things,” he said, forcing himself to sound almost cheerful. “Just a little room to get past… everything.”

____

Natasha opened the door to find Waarzegster standing in the hallway with Basil on their heels. She rather liked Basil, as he had a tendency to blush and duck his head whenever she glanced his way, and he spoke broken Russian with an adorably Brooklyn accent. Today, he was red from neckline to hairline, and he appeared to be frowning behind his mustache. As Zeg slid past Nat in the doorway, Basil caught her eye, frantically shaking his head.

“Not me, Ms. Romanova,” he muttered. “I had no part in this! Is all Boss.”

She frowned at him before following Zeg to see what was going on.

“Start packing.” Zeg gestured around the room with one delicate hand. Their skinny, all-black ensemble was topped with something multi-colored and fuzzy that _might_ have been a shawl. Between the brilliant colors that swirled and mingled around them, and the slash of Zeg’s red lips in their pale face, the effect was strangely hypnotic. 

“What?” Nat blinked, trying to drag her eyes away from the ripples of lime green, brilliant red, and teal that made Zeg’s narrow face look even thinner.

“Your things.” Zeg’s lips pressed together and their nostrils flared. “Pack them. You’re moving to my house tonight.”

“Why the hell would we do that?” Clint’s voice from the bathroom door echoed Nat’s thoughts, and she was very grateful to him for being her mouth while her own wasn’t working. Swiveling her head in his direction broke eye contact with that _yarn thing_ around Zeg’s neck, and let her start to think again. 

No wonder Zeg had the reputation they did: wear that _accessory_ \-- whatever it was-- and bask in the knowledge that no enemy would be able to look away from it long enough to attack, cheat, or notice a lighted stick of dynamite being shoved down the front of their own pants.

“We need you with the others now,” Zeg smiled sweetly at Clint. “It’s time to finalize plans, and check over your wardrobe and that of Agents Coulson and Sitwell. In addition, we need to get Agent Hill and Ms. Romanov into that building ahead of time to get the surveillance set up. That will be easier to accomplish if we are starting from the same point.”

“I would rather stay here,” Nat said, folding her arms across her chest and backing toward the wall. “Barton and I can do any required setup. All we need is a quick glance at the plans.”

Zeg ignored her interruption.

“Basil will be setting up a target in our courtyard for Mr. Barton to practice his archery.” Zeg watched Nat’s face carefully, and she resisted the urge to bite her lip. “And we would appreciate you and Agent Hill getting to know each other well enough to be able to run the op together. Her Agent Coulson will, we’re certain, listen to her, but we wouldn’t dream of allowing her unfettered control over your Hawkeye.”

And, dammit, Zeg had her, and they knew it. The one leverage point Nat had was Clint, and now Zeg had wedged a metaphorical crowbar right under him. The archery target was the first pull, because it would make Clint happy, help him get his brain back where it belonged. But keeping Nat in the loop on the mission, keeping SHIELD from getting too much control over it and over Clint and his portion of the operation? Well, game over. Zeg wins this round.

“Fine.” Nat took a deep breath and released the tension that had curled in her gut. “But Basil is going to help us carry things to the car. And you’re going to tell us exactly where we’re headed.”

Zeg pursed their thin lips, squinting from under the ruffle of their long, black bangs. “We have not shared the location of that safe house with anyone except Basil,” they told her. “Ever.”

“And you’re making plans to leave The Netherlands when this is all over, so what will it matter?” Nat shrugged carelessly, gambling that her guess was correct and keeping her reaction under control when Zeg’s smile broadened as she hit her mark. “I’m not going to send anyone in while I’m there, so you’ll be safe enough until the end of this job. Exact location of the safe house. That’s the cost of Clint and I being more accessible to you.”

“You _are_ good, aren’t you.” Zeg smiled serenely. “But _you_ must agree not to share that information with the SHIELD agents or with Beck.”

“Deal.” Nat smiled wolfishly. “Looks like we’re moving quarters, brother-mine.”

She only realized her miscalculation when she watched Clint’s face light up in a brilliant smile. It wasn’t the archery targets he was looking forward to being near. For just a few minutes, she’d almost forgotten Coulson.

____

 

Four days prior to the reception, Phil poured over building schematics with Jasper. It was frustrating work, because although they _both_ knew Hawkeye’s SHIELD dossier front to back and inside out, it would still have been preferable to have to have the man himself there. Clint would be able to tell them if the sightlines they were marking would work for him, or if there were better. The man was a professional sniper, and one of the best in the world. Choosing perches for him was just… dumb.

“We’re gonna have to ask Zeg for a meetup.” Jasper shoved his glasses on top of his head and rubbed at his eyes. “They got you to him once, so surely they can do it again. Although, you really should _try_ to keep your dick under control and actually ask about the blueprints this time, yeah?”

“I didn’t _have_ the blueprints last time,” Phil snapped. He took a slow breath in through his nose to try to calm himself. 

“You clearly had your dick, though.” Jasper winked across the table, and Phil resisted the urge to decapitate him with a nearby stack of papers. “Or was that his dick that you had?”

“Yes.” Phil was proud that his deadpan managed to be stay positively skeletal. “Although what the hell you even mean by--”

He was interrupted by the front door swinging dramatically open to thump against the wall, admitting a triumphant Zeg dressed in a long, black wool coat topped by a heap of brightly-colored, exceptionally fuzzy yarn.

“We brought you some assistance, gentlemen.” Zeg smiled a bit too brightly, manic with the edge of an adrenaline junkie. “I’m sure two such as these will prove most useful. With justs four days until the reception-- and the after hours festivities, of course-- we were certain you needed all the help you could get.”

The air was punched out of Phil’s lungs as Clint stepped into the room, Natasha on his heels, both of them looking apprehensive. And then Clint’s eyes met Phil’s and Clint’s face lit up, pink tinting the edges of his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. Phil felt the grin growing on his own face, and he wouldn’t have held it in if he could.

“Hullo, bay-- Phil. Agent Sitwell.” Clint bobbed his head at both of them. 

Phil fought valiantly against the sudden tingle in his thighs that wanted to pry him off the chair, send him running to Clint. His butt was clearly all-in on that idea, since the electric sparkle spread across it and was heading toward his lower back. Phil forced his gaze toward Natasha, hoping to fight off the way the desire to move had spread to his arms: they were clearly longing to wrap around Clint’s amazing shoulders which were shown to their best effect by the shirt…

Phil switched his brain to Russian to derail his own train of thoughts. “Good to see you again, Black Widow.”

“And you.” She smiled at Phil as she answered him in her native tongue. “And I would like to compliment you on your Russian. Your command of vocabulary is very good, and your accent is… restful to my ears.”

“That’s high praise” Phil returned her smile and gestured at the space next to where he stood at the table. “Would you care to join us?”

“Of course.” She turned to Clint. “You, too?”

He nodded, and they both walked to the table, Natasha glancing between Phil and Clint before walking around the table to take the seat beside Jasper. Phil didn’t miss the grateful look Clint shot her way as he leaned on the table beside Phil and let their shoulders brush together. 

“Good to see you, Agent,” he said quietly, privately, and Phil returned the shoulder bump smiled warmly at him.

“Glad you’re here,” he murmured back, glancing down where Jasper and Nat were pretending to pointedly ignore them. 

“Think we’re supposed to be here to work.” Clint’s eyes flickered down to Phil’s lips for a second. “So we should probably get on it before we find something to distract us.”

Phil swallowed hard and forced himself to turn back to the task at hand. He gestured at the blueprints. “Would you check the sightlines we’ve marked and see if you have any better ideas?”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Clint said. “But I’ll look, anyway… Wait. What the hell is this? That’s the dumbest shit… Whose idea _was_ this?”

____

 

After nearly two hours of listening to Clint and Phil snipe at once another, Natasha and Jasper had both given up and gone in search of Basil and food. The argument over placement of surveillance equipment and where to hide while they waited for all interested parties to appear raged on. Personally, Phil was enjoying the hell out of it. The edge to Clint’s voice, the spark in his eyes was heady, and watching Clint show off his incredibly specialized knowledge was downright _sexy_. 

Didn’t mean he was _right_ , though.

“There is no way in hell you can get in there without someone seeing you.” Phil slapped his hands onto his hips and glared. “And there’s no way we’d both fit in there.”

“Maybe _you_ can’t get there without being seen,” Clint snapped, crossing his own arms over his chest defiantly, “but I can waltz in there easy as you please. And we don’t _have_ to both fit in there. _You’re_ going to be right over here.”

“No.” Phil slapped his palm down on the building plans. “No way in hell am I leaving you that exposed alone. If we go in over here, we’ll both have cover, and we’ll be able to cover each other.”

“Phil, goddamn it!” Clint’s fist clenched like he trying to keep from crumpling the blueprints in his fist and throwing them across the room. His voice raised, both in volume and pitch. “We can’t glue ourselves together just because we… Just for… We can’t! I’ve got this, okay. This is my damned _job_ , and I don’t need you babysitting me to get through it.”

“I never said one damn word about you not being _able_ to do this!” Phil was a bit surprised to find himself shouting. “I said we should stick together and provide _each other_ some fucking cover! That way we _both_ survive the damned thing. It’d just be _easier_ if we went in together.”

“Well, we’re not surviving shit going in _that_ way.” Clint huffed an annoyed breath and traced his finger along the path of a hallway. “Okay, look. We’ll be seen here and here, and caught on camera there.” He suddenly stiffened all over grabbed Phil’s bicep. “Wait! I’ve got it!”

“What?” Phil stepped closer, and their hips bumped and held. 

“Look! Somebody screwed up the security coverage.” Clint rapped his knuckle on an elevator. “This lets out way out of the line of sight of those cameras. So we walk up one flight of stairs, go into the shaft, disable the camera _in_ the box, and ride up to here.”

Clint’s excitement was contagious. 

“Yes!” Phil traced along the hall outside the elevator. “And then we park it in _this_ closet until time for Mars and Natasha to take out the _rest_ of the cameras.”

“Exactly.” Clint grinned over at Phil. “Nice easy stroll, we won’t be showing up on camera anywhere we have no right to be, and a big, comfy closet to wait in for an hour or two.”

Phil slid his arm around Clint’s waist. “Sorry, babe. I’ve been out of the closet for decades.”

Clint leaned in until their lips just brushed. “I never bothered going in in the first place.”

The harsh cough of someone pretending to clear their throat jerked them apart. 

“Sorry to interrupt, boys.” Maria’s face failed to look anything close to apologetic. “But we were just wondering if you were going to kill each other, or if you were to a point where you can put it down and come eat something.”

“On the way, Mars.” Phil sighed heavily, squeezing Clint’s hips once before pulling away. “Everything is fine in here. And we have the first half of our plans worked out. We’ll fill you all in later.”

Mars blinked at them, clearly disbelieving, before she turned to go back to the kitchen. Phil turned back to Clint and found himself suddenly wrapped tightly in Clint’s arms. He sighed blissfully as Clint took the opportunity to claim the kiss they’d nearly exchanged before Maria had interrupted. 

“Let’s go eat, babe.” Clint’s nose rubbed along the bridge of Phil’s. “Before they send someone scarier in here to get us.”

“How _do_ you survive daily activities with the Black Widow watching over you?” Phil asked lightly, and they walked into the hall, laughing easily together.

____

For Clint, dinner was frustrating. Ridiculously, painfully frustrating. Phil sat there across the table, talking and joking with Sitwell on one side of him and Hill on the other, and he rarely ever looked Clint’s way. Unfortunately, his aim was… unerring. Every time Clint would give up staring and hoping for a little dribble of attention, Phil’s foot would brush against his own under the table, their insteps sliding together, creating a small pool of warmth between their ankles. Clint tried to keep up his conversation with Beck and Zeg, but, judging by Nat’s occasional elbow-bump, he wasn’t doing particularly well. 

My _God_ , though! How could he be expected to concentrate when he was finally, after two damned days that were following nearly a week, getting some contact with _Phil._

“Yeah, Barton and I figured out how to get up to the floor without being spotted, and we’ve found a place to park ourselves while we wait for the go.” Phil looked directly across the table, straight into Clint’s eyes, with that expression that was the aborted-sneeze of the smile world. Clint both melted and found himself instantly hard. He suddenly foresaw years of fucking slightly reserved, balding men with big blue eyes in his future. 

_Thanks, Phil. I needed a new fetish._

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint watched Phil’s mild expression go positively wicked, and his socked foot suddenly ran the length of Clint’s inseam from ankle to _well_ above his knee. Clint’s voice cracked in the middle of a word to Zeg as he felt toes brush the crease at his upper thigh.

“Mister Barton?” Zeg sounded concerned, but looked too damned amused. There was no way they didn’t know what was happening under their table. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Clint gasped out. “Just choked on… air. Or something.”

Phil’s foot dropped, but his smile lifted further still. 

_Decades_ of a certain type of man. Clint shot him a glare. _Asshole_.

____

 

It was another two hours before Clint got any kind of revenge… or relief.

As soon as Phil slid into the bathroom, Clint was on him, using Phil’s shoulderblades to close the door, reaching around Phil’s ribs to secure the lock.

“You…” Clint began, then interrupted himself to kiss the smirk off of Phil’s face. “Are a…” He had to pause again for more kissing. “Giant asshole.”

Clint figured he’d said his piece, so he moved on from kissing to biting, earning himself a groan as his teeth sank into Phil’s bottom lip. He spent several minutes sucking a bit, tugging _just so_ with his teeth. It felt damned imperative to get the right level of debauched and ready-to-be-fucked to the redness and swelling of Phil’s goddamned _perfect_ mouth. The tightening of Phil’s fingertips against Clint’s hips, dragging him closer, was a bonus, as was the moaning and panting while Clint ( _tenderly_ ) brutalized his mouth. He turned his attention to Phil’s throat next, working his lips over the soft skin as Phil stretched his chin up to give better access.

“You’re the one who texted me to, quote, get my world-class ass into this goddamned bathroom right the fuck now, endquote.” Phil writhed against the door as Clint nibbled delicately at his earlobe, rubbing his groin distractingly against Clint’s. “So obviously giant asshole is exactly your type.”

“Damn straight.” Clint reached up to slide his fingers into Phil’s fine hair. “And not too proud to admit it.”

He dragged Phil’s face forward into another kiss while pressing his own body harder against Phil’s chest and thighs. Phil clung right back, setting up a slow samba with his hips that built the warm burn of arousal that Clint had been battling since supper into a fever.

“Gonna come in my _jeans_ , Phil,” Clint whispered, hearing the note of hysteria in his own voice. “Don’t wanna. Not yet.”

Phil gathered Clint’s shoulders into his arms, pulling his face down to Phil’s shoulder and stroking his palm across the back of Clint’s neck, shushing him gently. 

“Hey, I wouldn’t judge, Clint.” Phil’s hips swayed forward again. “Nearly there myself.”

“No, babe.” Clint pushed himself free of Phil’s grip and slid slowly to the floor before reaching for Phil’s waistband. “Not what I had in mind, really. Is this okay?” He looked up for permission before doing anything more than resting his fingertips on the snap on Phil’s jeans.

Phil’s mouth had fallen open, and he simply nodded, wide-eyed, face flushed red and pupils dilating quickly.

“Talk to me while I do this, yeah?” He nuzzled against Phil’s thigh. “Just… don’t care what you say. Just talk. Tell me what’s on your mind?”

“Glad you’re here, but it’s going to be torture,” Phil complied, hands reaching out to stroke tenderly along Clint’s ruffled hair. “Having you around, and not touching you all the time.” His voice hitched, and he sucked in a deep breath. “Mmm, just like that, babe. Don’t want to share a bed with Jasper and Maria tonight, not when you’re here. Would rather be sleeping with you. Oh God, that’s... “ He grunted, eyes dropping shut for a moment. “You’re so fucking good at that, babe. Glad I get a minute with you...”

Clint stared into Phil’s eyes as he worked his lips and fingers along Phil, letting the sound of Phil’s voice-- slowly becoming more ragged, edging into hoarse-- wash over him. The words lost all meaning, but the tone and the warmth said everything Clint needed to hear. Soon the tiny hitches in Phil’s breathing became quiet little grunts.

“Close, Clint.” Phil’s fingers tightened on Clint’s shoulder to help brace himself against the door. “So cl… Oh. Shit shit shit!”

After a few minutes of panting against Clint’s neck while curled into him on the floor, Phil returned the favor. Clint stretched himself along the cool tiles, head resting on a plush bathmat, hands reaching up to grip the side of the tub. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, knowing that it’d all be over too soon if he dared to watch. Aftward, Phil dragged himself up Clint’s body, and they lay together on the floor until Phil finally dragged them both to their feet to brush their teeth.

Letting go of Phil outside his bedroom door was the hardest thing Clint had done in a long time. There was just so little time left, and it damned near hurt to slip his fingers out of Phil’s, to accept one last, oddly chaste kiss and whisper goodnights.

When Clint finally crawled into bed beside Natasha, she was facing away from him, but her breathing was entirely too steady for her to be actually asleep. Clint scooted until his back was pressed against hers, taking courage from the fact that she didn’t move away.

“It’s just sex.” He mumbled, throat scratchy and voice shot to hell. “It’s damned good sex, but it’s still just sex.”

“Does it help if you tell yourself that?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“I don’t know, but I keep hoping it will.” 

She didn’t reply in words, but she did roll over and wrap her arms around his ribs for just a little while, before she turned away, again snuggling their backs together, and they both faded slowly into sleep.

 

____

 

The following morning, Phil was the first one into the kitchen, moving, but not quite awake yet. His first cup of coffee sat in front of him, still half-full of the Brew of Life. He leaned forward to let the steam could curl directly up his nose, hoping it would wake him up enough that he could convince his arm to lift the mug and pour the remaining contents down his throat. He’d lain awake for a long time the night before, even with the familiar comfort of Maria’s head on his shoulder, Jasper’s butt against his hip. The ghost of Clint’s lips on his own, echos of Clint’s mouth doing decadent things to Phil’s body, kept sleep at bay after he’d crawled into bed and been swarmed over by his drowsy friends. They were nice, but neither of them felt quite like Clint did in his bed, against his body, in his arms.

Phil sighed and went back to trying to absorb his coffee by osmosis, wrapping both his hands around the mug and clinging.

Jasper, when he appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later, looked disgustingly alert. His dimple was now nearly hidden by his beard, but, honestly, he’d have had to have a lot more hair or a lot less dimple for it to _actually_ vanish. Phil’s arm lurched up and out, and he managed to gulp a huge swallow from his coffeecup.

“Good morning, Agent Coulson!” The dimple deepened with Jas’s sarcastically cheerful greeting. “Have a good time before you crawled into bed?”

“Fuck off.” Not Phil’s wittiest answer, but there was still a quarter of a cup of coffee to get down before his eyes achieved Open; an entire second cup was required before his brain flipped the sign and unlocked the door.

“I appreciate that you brushed your teeth before you joined us,” Jasper said, pulling on his most Solemn Agent serious expression, “but shower next time. You _reeked_ of manly sex.”

“Jealous, baby?” Phil forced his face to raise one eyebrow. Jasper snorted at him, grabbing the coffeepot and leaning over Phil’s shoulder refill his cup. 

“As if you could handle this!” He gestured toward himself with the carafe.

Clearly, the caffeine hit Phil’s mouth before his brain, because it opened and he heard himself say:

“We’ll have to get you a man of your own. I’m already claimed.”

____

Jasper felt Phil’s shoulder stiffen under his hand, and he opened his mouth to ask just what the hell Phil’d meant by that. Before he could get a word out, Malene shuffled into the kitchen, dark hair already brushed sleek and twisted into a braid. Nat walked in right behind her, also neatly dressed and put-together; Maria, in the rear, remained fluffed and rumpled, and looked like she was going to need a pot or two of coffee of her own to get awake. 

Jasper let Phil’s comment drop. For now. Didn’t want to push him in front of the others. Especially Romanov.

Phil’s shoulders had slumped again at the arrival of the women, but they suddenly stiffened again as Clint walked through the doorway. Barton looked like hell to match Phil, but they both brightened as they made eye contact. Jasper squinted at them, but the tiny secretive smile they exchanged was their only acknowledgement of each other. Clint moved to Nat’s side and murmured to her in Russian, while Phil turned back to the cup in front of him, staring into the dark brew like it held all the secrets in the world.

And, well, Jasper couldn’t disagree with that sentiment: coffee was the Key to All Things. He finally poured himself a mug and set the carafe back on the warmer. He edged out of the way as the rest of them made a beeline for the coffee. 

“So….” The edge to Maria’s voice belied her sleep-wrinkled appearance. “May I ask exactly what happened to those plans? How they vanished from right under your noses, when you’re supposed to be the best of the best?”

Jasper attention snapped to her, and he felt more than saw Phil’s head swivel that direction also. 

Natasha made a small sound in her throat, a hum of agreement or acknowledgement. “Breakfast first,” she said. “And then we’ll meet in the dining room, where you have the evidence collected, to explain, yes?”

Maria nodded her agreement, and everyone went back to making toast, and pouring juice and coffee. But Jasper didn’t miss the way Barton turned one longing look at Phil before he got his own coffee and moved to lean against the counter in the corner, as far from Phil and (presumably) temptation as he could get.

Jasper tried to ignore the tension that was building between the two of them as they finished up breakfast, but Phil was clearly winding tighter and tighter as the minutes ticked by. Finally, as they moved from the kitchen to the dining room, Phil caught Jasper’s arm, holding him back until everyone else had gone by them.

“You know I didn’t… I don’t…” The stuttering was out of character for Phil, and therefore worrisome, but Jasper didn’t interrupt as Phil hunted for words. “It’s just sex. It’s just… it’s just sex and it’s just for now.”

“Phil,” Jasper shook his arm free, “it _can’t_ work out. You know that, right? What if they were the thieves? What if they’re part of all of this?”

“I… I don’t think they’re involved now, except in trying to retrieve the plans.” Phil narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know about before that, when the plans went missing. But… I trust him. Them.” Phil swallowed hard and held up his hand to cut Jasper off when he opened his mouth to answer (not that he knew what he was going to say). “No. Him. I _do_ trust him, Jas. And I know that’s a problem. I’ve got a problem. But… three more days to the reception, and then it’s over, no matter what. So… just back off.”

He pushed past Jasper into the dining room, and Jasper sighed heavily before following. Phil had clearly lost his damned mind, and there was nothing anyone could do but wait until it all blew over and then go out drinking as soon as they all got home. One night out, just the three of them, and a lazy morning around Phil’s with coffee and crosswords and it would all smooth over again.

____

“We were hired by email.” Natasha paced the room, drawing everyone’s eyes. Except Phil’s. He tried to watch her, but he found that he couldn’t drag himself away from watching Clint across the room. “That’s standard for us, really, since most of our business is conducted via internet. We have a website.” She said the last a bit whimsically, and someone chuckled. 

“So we sent the routing information to collect our payment, and we went to our first day on the job.” She paused near the window overlooking the huge central courtyard, staring out at the sky. “Two weeks we took turns sitting in a room with a handful of work stations, engineers at every one of them, busily working away. It was… tedious.”

Clint snorted, and winked at Phil. “What she means is that they were all too busy to be scared of her.”

“Clint…” Nat’s voice was both reproachful and fond, and Phil smiled at her, glad Clint had that in his life: someone who cared for him. Someone who looked after him. 

“Sorry, сестра.” Clint turned his grin on her, and Phil’s heart thumped a bit harder. Clint’d be okay. “Go on, please.”

“We were told by one of the project managers that the work was taking longer than anticipated, and that we would be receiving a second payment.” She walked back to the table and leaned both hands against the top of it, staring into the polished surface. “That night we got word that the safe that we had set up had been opened, and the plans were gone. We did get the second payment, however. A couple of days later, to hunt down the plans and bring them back.”

“Wait.” Jasper leaned his elbows on the table and propped his chin on his clenched fists. “ _You_ set up the safe where the plans were held?”

“Standard procedure for corporate documents with us,” Clint interjected. “A very limited number of people have access that way, no former employees with a chip on their shoulder. Nat runs her own form of background check on anyone who gets a code, and we collect biometrics for anyone who can get in.”

“Impressive.” Maria nodded. “So who opened it that night?”

Natasha dropped into a chair and folded her hands together in front of her on the table. “An executive code was used.”

“Who had executive access to the system?” Maria asked. 

Clint’s eyes were boring holes into Phil’s as Natasha answered.

“Theoretically only Clint and myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: A few things become clearer; Jasper has a date; Clint and Phil talk like grownups. Again. 
> 
> So it IS going to be every other week to update (unless something magical happens at any point). But, really, 10,000 word chapters are just... a bit more than I can do in a week. Not with any sort of quality.
> 
> THIS chapter actually approached 14,000 words, and needed a little bit more on a few scenes. So I broke it up into both 13 and 14 (which DOES mean that 14 is nearly first-drafted). It also means yet ANOTHER chapter on this monster, so we still have about 6 chapters to go!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If I can say it while your tongue was doing that," Clint panted, "then you have to know that I meant it." The words cut off in a breathy whine as Phil’s thumb pressed in. “Jesus, Phil!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: brief mentions of past child abuse; really ridiculous amounts of sexual contact - I don’t recommend reading this one at work.

____

Clint kept his gaze steady, holding Phil’s eyes and waiting to see how he reacted to Nat’s admission that no one _but_ she or Clint could have stolen the schematics they were supposed to have been guarding. From the moment they’d gone into that room, he’d known how it appeared: safe standing open, nothing damaged in the theft, an executive override code used to open it. He’d felt it in his bones as he surveyed the crime scene, scanning for anything else out of place, anything that would give a hint to the identity of the real thief. He and Nat were clearly the obvious, primary suspects. He’d lived in fear that they were about to be picked up by the police or FBI or DHS or _someone_. 

The relief when the second payment and the orders to retrieve the plans had come through had been almost overwhelming. 

What a fucking joke _that_ turned out to be. Clint would have insisted they close out the account and refuse the payment, if he’d known what would happen. Hell, he’d have paid every penny of the original fee back out of his own damn money, if there had been the slightest indication of what came next.

But Phil just stared into Clint’s eyes, face carefully neutral.

“So whose code was used?” Malene's voice cut through the tense silence, making everyone jump. Her scowl swung from Natasha to Clint and back. “And how do we know it wasn’t either of you?”

“You don’t know that. Can’t know it,” Natasha snapped. “All you have right now is my word, but I do give it to you, worthless as _that_ is. There was no one else who _should_ have had access to that system. I programmed it myself.”

“Who designed the original system?” Phil asked, his voice almost painfully gentle. He was clearly trying to leave some room for doubt, and Clint wanted to hug the man. Or blow him. Hugs or blowjobs, one. Wait… He’d asked a question.

“Hardware was an old Cross Tech mess of a thing,” Clint answered, trying to get himself back on track. “But the software was rewritten by a contact at SI. And now SI is in town, which is making me wonder what the _hell_ is going on over there.”

Nat shook her head. “Not Stark’s style at all, and it sure as _hell_ isn’t Pepper Potts’s.”

“You know Ms. Potts?” Jasper looked up from where he was jotting notes on an already half-filled legal pad. 

“We met briefly as part of a job,” Nat replied with a shrug. “It was some years ago.”

“We’ll come back to Stark,” Maria said, and Clint wondered what gears were turning behind her cool blue gaze. Even ruffled from sleep and wearing a pair of fuzzy Eeyore pajama pants, she carried an air of casual competence as she slipped further into work mode. Clint was willing to bet everyone at SHIELD was terrified of her; he'd have to ask Phil later. If Phil was still speaking to him. “What happened after the theft? Who was called in?”

Clint laughed bitterly and rubbed one hand over his eyes.

“What happened is that everything got pretty damned weird.” He leaned his elbows on the table and studied Phil’s face as he spoke directly to him. “We kept expecting to be pulled in for questioning, but we never were. Never saw a hint of any authorities nosing around, and we were listening pretty damned close. Next thing we knew, the second deposit was put into our account and we were asked to recover the plans. So we packed up and headed out.”

“We both began making contact with some of our former associates.” Natasha sighed and drooped against the back of her chair, suddenly looking very weary. “The trail was very clear into China. So we went to China. And then the trail shifted to Russia, so we went to Russia. We would have kept following, but…” She let the word trail away and looked out the window, expression closing off as her eyes became dark and haunted.

Clint knew she was _letting_ them all see her weakness, and he again found himself in awe of her. She would use her own weak points as tools of manipulation. That was something Clint wasn’t sure he could ever do, no matter how great the rewards. But he wasn’t going to let her down right here, so he cleared his throat to get the attention on himself and took over the narration.

“There were, like, a shit-ton of rumors that the plans were in being kept at one facility or another. But the warehouses and offices were empty every time we got there. Not just empty, but wiped clean. So it looked like something _had_ been there, but wasn’t now. A few of ‘em still had active security systems.” He grinned impishly, and heard Nat heave a long-suffering sigh. “Once there were some explosives of some kind hooked up, and, since Nat was busy across town, I decided the easiest way to deal with them was to detonate ‘em from outside the building. Didn’t know I’d burn down three warehouses and a boat.”

“Impressive,” Phil told him dryly, his stoic front cracking enough to let the twinkle build in his eyes. Clint barked a laugh, and the twinkle spread to the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Clint wanted to climb across the table and kiss them.

“It was especially impressive from up close.” Clint rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Didn’t think my eyebrows were ever going to recover.” 

“Маленький брат. Stay on track.” Nat’s reproachful tone was somewhat marred by her fond smile, and he grinned back at her, wishing she’d excuse herself before he had to tell the next part of the story. 

“I’m _still_ older than you,” Clint told her.

“And you’re still the little brother. What does this say about you?” Nat’s lips twisted as she tried to keep her tone light. She knew the next part of the story, and was clearly going to leave the telling to him. He looked back toward Phil, unable to watch her face while he recapped what had happened in Russia.

“We might have ended up following the path of hearsay and rumors all the way to Amsterdam if we hadn’t gotten a little sidetracked. There was a new group trying to make a name for themselves who said they’d just bought some important papers from the US. Sounded like our kind of thing. So Nat went into the lab to take a look and…” He sighed, glancing quickly at Nat and then staring at his own hands folded together on the table. “They grabbed her. It… took me awhile to find out where she was being held and to get her back.” 

He risked a glance at Phil and saw sympathy in the deepening of the crease between his brows. Phil glanced in Maria’s direction and then shrugged before shifting away from the edge of the table enough to sign.

 _Your sister’s safe. You have her._ The corner of his lip twitched. _She’s safe._

Clint nodded gratefully at him and forced a small smile before he continued.

“So there we were in Russia, trying to get home, and suddenly _everyone_ is looking for us, and I still don’t know why.” Clint sighed, and Nat reached over to squeeze his wrist. “Well, the Russians were trying to get Nat back. Prob’ly wanted to kill me. But we got chased all the way into Europe. Finally managed to shake our tail in Poland, but, with Nat injured we knew we weren’t getting home any time soon. Went to access our account and found it was closed and everything in it was gone.”

Nat patted his wrist and sighed.

“I had an identity set up in Denmark," she said, "with papers and money, so we came here and worked out a plan to get us home.” She smiled wryly at Maria. “It’s been a _very_ trying year. We’d given up on the plans and were just trying to get back to the US without anyone else making us and harming a plane full of civilians to get at us. Some of the people after us are… not known for their mercy.”

“It was the day after you showed up,” Clint said to Phil, “that we heard from Zeg that the plans were in town. And that SHIELD was, too.”

“No.” Nat interrupted. “The word about the plans came from an anonymous source. Zeg only informed me about SHIELD to try to warn us about one more group that could identify us.”

Movement across the table caught Clint’s eye, and he looked up to see Phil grabbing Jasper’s notebook, eyes narrowed intently.

“So whoever stole the plans tried to frame you for it,” he said, running his finger down a neat row of bullet points, “and then, for whatever reason, they decided to sic more or less everyone on you. And all we need to do is track that damned account number.”

“And get into that reception and up to the auction.” Jas sounded morose, but his dimple was showing. “It all sounds so easy!”

Did _all_ SHIELD agents get off on weird shit? Which, granted, would explain Phil’s fascination with Clint.

“Any ideas?” Malene asked, suddenly leaning forward from where she’d been listening silently in her chair. 

“ _That_ part is terribly simple,” said Zeg from the doorway; only the fact that everyone in the room was currently unarmed kept anyone from reacting violently at their sudden, silent appearance. “Our women will go in as party staff, Phillip Marcus will take his Anton, and we shall attend with our perfect dating match. He is a _lovely_ young man from Honduras, played by the dashing Agent Sitwell!”

____

"Nat and I were _not_ involved in the theft, Phil. I swear we had nothing to do with it." 

"Is this really the time to talk about it?" Phil sat back on his heels and dragged the back of his wrist across his mouth. After spending an entire day arguing infiltration tactics and gorging themselves on Basil's culinary efforts, everyone else had finally retired for the night. Except for Phil. And Clint. 

At the end of the day, desperately needing to reassure, to get his hands on Clint and prove that _they_ were okay, Phil was the one to text requesting a meeting for two in the bathroom. He'd bent Clint across the vanity after one very brief, very determined kiss. Twenty minutes had passed since that initial kiss, and they were both naked and sweating. Clint’s knees were shaking as if he could barely hold himself up. His forehead was leaning against the mirror, his elbows braced hard against the marble countertop, and Phil found him beautiful. 

Clint forced himself upright just far enough to peer over his shoulder, looking down at Phil with an expression of one part fear and one part hope, both emotions well-drenched in lust. Phil grinned up at him, sliding the palm of one hand up the inside of Clint’s thigh to watch his eyes darken. Cupping both firm globes of Clint’s cheeks in his palms, Phil let his thumb trace through the glossy shine where his tongue had been working moments before.

"If I can say it while your tongue was doing that," Clint panted, "then you have to know that I meant it." The words cut off in a breathy whine as Phil’s thumb pressed in. “Jesus, Phil!”

"I want to believe that," Phil said slowly as he climbed to his feet, moving smootly as he thrust in with his thumb, trying to avoid causing Clint any discomfort. If Clint's gasp was anything to go by, "discomfort" was not what he experienced as Phil’s hand shifted. "I want to believe you. I _do_ but I can't tell if that's my gut or my feelings for you talking."

"You... You have feelings for me?" Clint sounded so fragile, and it made Phil's chest ache.

"Course I do, Clint." He slid his free hand under Clint's chest, pulling him upright and holding him close. He made certain their eyes met in the mirror before he continued. "I don't throw around the word love like I'm distributing condoms at a Pride parade."

Clint's head dropped back to Phil's shoulder, eyes smoldering in the mirror, hips shifting fretfully to rock against Phil's thumb, deepening the angle to make himself clench down in pleasure.

"I think you should get that condom on and fuck me now, babe." Clint's voice had dropped an octave, and it vibrated down Phil's sternum and sent shockwaves to his groin. Phil pulled away to comply, but Clint twisted to catch him in a deep kiss. He moved his lips gently, softly against Phil’s, licking lightly over the sharp edge of his bottom lip before pulling away to whisper, "And uh, same here, Phil. Just so... Just thought... Same here."

Neither of them spoke again after that, letting their hands, their panting breaths speak for them as they maintained eye contact in the mirror while Phil turned Clint around to bend him over the counter again, gripping his hips hard as he slowly slid home. The last sound either of them made was a tiny, broken gasp from Clint as he shivered through orgasm before leaning further forward and bracing himself to give Phil permission to chase his own release.

Afterward, in the shower, Clint was the one who held Phil up, who provided the shoulder to support a lolling head. His rough-palmed hands were gentle as they washed Phil's body, string-callused fingertips making fanciful trails through Phil's chest hair. Phil tried not to analyze why he hung so limply in Clint’s arms, why he couldn’t bring himself to just turn off the water already. Clint’s lips and teeth found the side of Phil’s neck, making it much easier to ignore thoughts and focus entirely on the feelings.

They stood embracing for a long moment outside the door to the room Phil shared with Mars and Jas, until Clint finally pushed Phil away. Phil gave him one more kiss and a last wry smile before Clint headed down the hall to the room where Nat was waiting on him with sympathetic eyes and a tender but possessive hug.

____

The morning after their bathroom confessions and their night of… of…

 _Love-making. Just_ say _it, Clint,_ he told himself. _Just because you’ve never done it before and may never do it again doesn’t mean you can’t call it what it was._

The morning after the _night before_ , Clint woke up knowing he had to get things with Phil back on a more even keel. Their feelings had gone too far, and, while it was too late to do anything about that now, he could at least put one layer of distance between them. He dressed carelessly, throwing on a baggier pair of jeans and a larger t-shirt than he’d been wearing; left his hair fuzzy instead of slapping in a handful of gel to spike it up; pulled on his boots to make himself look less available. Or maybe to enable himself to actually run out the door. If it came to that.

 _Only if I can carry him on my back._ Clint grinned wryly. _Shut the fuck up, Barton._

“Morning.” Phil was, unfortunately, alone in the kitchen when Clint got there. He was still in a too-tight t-shirt and a pair of flannel sleep pants, wearing his glasses, and looking soft, touchable, and gorgeous. 

“Hey, babe.” The endearment slipped out before Clint could stop it, and he couldn’t control his own body any better than his mouth, apparently. Before he’d realized he was going to, he’d slipped around behind Phil’s stool and began kissing the side of his neck. Clint forgot all about his plans to keep some distance, distracted by the way Phil’s morning shadow prickled across his lips. He lost several long moments rubbing his mouth across it in tiny caresses. 

Phil’s neck was covered in goosebumps, and he was making tiny, breathy sounds of pleasure before Clint scraped together enough willpower to pull away.

“That… Well…” Phil cleared his throat. “Good morning to you, too, gorgeous.”

Clint could feel his cheeks heating as he dropped his hands from where they’d come up to cling to Phil’s broad shoulders. He turned away to go get himself a cup of coffee. Half the contents of his first mug was gone before he finally realized that Phil was wearing the t-shirt Clint had loaned him in Rotterdam; the discovery went straight to Clint’s crotch. He edged around to sit on the stool beside Phil, letting their shoulders knock together casually as he did, trying to keep Phil’s attention (and his own) away from his fly and the sudden tightening of his jeans.

“So… what’s on the agenda for today?” Clint asked, bumping their shoulders together again.

Phil hummed thoughtfully and took another drink from his own coffee before answering. 

“Going over the same damned information we’ve looked at dozens of times, hoping something new comes to light.” He gave another hum, and the amused twitch flickered over the corner of his lip. “Probably watching everyone get on everyone else’s nerves, leading to minor frictions and bickering. Placing bets on the outcome when Mars and Jas have _another_ little disagreement, which will further lend credence to Malene’s theory that they’ve developed _feelings_ for each other. Making plans for tomorrow and the next day.” He dropped one hand to Clint’s knee. “And try to get every minute with you I possibly can before the timer runs out.”

It was cowardly. It was stupid and cowardly, and completely unfair to Phil, but Clint did it anyway. 

“I gotta take some coffee to Nat,” he said, the words coming out rushed as he jumped to his feet. “See you in today’s boring planning meeting in a bit.”

He quickly poured another cup of coffee, dumped in an unmeasured amount of cream, and bolted from the kitchen.

____

After dressing in slacks and a button-up, Phil glared himself down in the mirror. He knew he had to give Clint some space, leave some room to breathe, try not to push to get close. He could, and he _would_.

Clearly, Clint fleeing the kitchen that morning was a direct response to the accidental intimacy that had built up between them. Truth be told, Phil didn’t really blame him. The tick of the countdown timer in the back of Phil’s head was almost constant, and touching Clint only drowned it out for such a short time; every time it came back, it was louder and more insistent than before. The thought of walking away permanently was excruciating, and Clint clearly agreed. Phil was going to do everything in his power to keep it from being any harder on Clint than it had to be, even if it meant making the break early.

 _It’s already too late for me,_ he thought wryly as he turned away from his reflection to meet the rest of his team for the day’s planning and analysis.

Phil stuttered to a halt in the doorway to the dining room. Clint and Natasha were already there, clearly engrossed in the documents spread out in front of them. Phil squinted to see which file it was, and felt his eyebrows climb his forehead when he realized it was the financial documents from B and R. Neither of the mercs saw him, focused as they were on what they were doing, heads tipped together, conversing half in sign and half in Russian. 

Jasper stepped beside Phil into the doorway, glancing over with raised eyebrows, clearly asking for translation, but Phil just shrugged in reply. Whatever signs Clint was using right then, they were some sort of personal shorthand between him and Natasha, and Phil hadn't seen them sign together enough to begin to guess at the meanings.

 _Hi, handsome_! Clint signed the greeting, beaming when he looked up and saw Phil waiting in the doorway. _B.R. papers. Early. When they got the plans. Big payout, receiver no name._

 _Maybe good._ Phil signed back, walking into the room and rounding the table to look, stopping behind Clint. He didn’t miss the raised eyebrow Natasha aimed his way, but opted not to respond-- not that he knew _how_ to respond. He dropped his arms over Clint’s shoulders to sign, touching his fingers to Clint’s face for the first sign. _Let me see. Wait. Show Jas where._

And then he finished his thought in speech for Jasper's benefit, relaxing as Clint’s hands came up to grip Phil’s wrists and pull his palms to Clint’s chest. "He's a wizard at following money trails. See what he can find."

"We have a money trail?" Jasper edged around the table, and Clint scooted his chair back to stand. "Show me."

Clint waved Jas into his now-vacated chair beside Nat before stepping back and looping his arm around Phil's waist. The warmth of Clint's absurd muscle mass was irresistible, and Phil leaned into the embrace, sighing contentedly as Clint’s fingers wiggled under the edge of his t-shirt to stroke above his waistband. Phil’s resolve to stay away crumbled and vanished. It was stupid to think he could stay away from this.

"Nat found it, so she can show you," Clint said, seemingly ignorant of how intimate his touch was. Phil’s breath stuttered, caught under his ribs at the slip of fingertips against his side; he worked to focus on what Clint was saying. "It’s clearly not a bonus to an in-house engineer, or anything like that, because those are all labeled. And still on the servers. So maybe they were stolen in the first place and someone decided to steal them back."

“Cross or Stark?” Phil mused. “Or Hammer.”

“I’ll see if I can pull financials from the same time period from all three.” Jasper shoved his glasses up his nose, shoulders tensing for action.

"Or maybe they're hiding something everyone wants to get their hands on." Natasha swiped through the stack of papers from the file in front of her. "Whatever they are, this transaction only appears on the physical printouts that your Agent Hill brought with her. It's clearly been wiped from their servers since then."

"So let's see when it was deleted and what other information they're trying to hide, yeah?" Jasper looked over his shoulder at Phil. His dimple deepened as his eyes dropped to where Clint's finger was shoved through one of Phil's belt loops, but he, thankfully, said nothing aloud. "How about you and Barton start with the pages that come after this and see if you can find anything else that's been deleted from their computers?"

"How about I hate you for giving us the tedious work?" Phil grumbled, not remotely angry, but needing to protest because that’s how he and Jas worked. In fact, he felt himself relaxing: there was a day of familiar, detailed work ahead of him and a promise of Clint beside him while he did it. No, Clint working _alongside him_. He could think of many worse ways to spend an afternoon.

And, truth be told, not many better.

____

Basil brought lunch in to them, trailed by Maria and Malene. Zeg slipped in halfway through the meal, wearing a floor-length black wrap dress and a smug smile. Jasper and Natasha caught everyone up on what they’d found (not much. Yet. But they were hopeful), while Clint and Phil stayed at one end of the table, scrolling through and through financial reports on Phil’s laptop around bites of food. 

The morning had started with such _good_ intentions. Clint would Make Some Space. He’d keep his treacherous hands to himself, let Phil draw away without yanking him close and holding on-- emotionally-speaking as well as physically. And then Phil was sitting there in the kitchen, so soft and appealing and beautiful and… And Clint had lost his damn mind and touched and kissed and got as close as he could.

He’d steeled himself again when Nat turned on the computer, knowing Phil would be joining them soon. And then Phil reached around to sign, making use of Clint’s face. And that was… that sliced right through all of Clint’s defenses. It was such a _comfortable_ thing. Comforting. Familiar. Phil probably hadn’t even noticed he’d done it, growing up in a deaf home. For Clint, though, there hadn’t been many people who’d known him well enough to use his body to sign, and there had been even fewer who knew enough ASL.

But now there was Phil, and they were both familiar enough with each other’s touch, with each other’s space, with _each other_ , that it hadn’t felt weird. Clint had pulled Phil’s hands close, grateful and warm-- and a little bit aroused-- and had given up on keeping his distance. 

_It had been a dumb idea to begin with._

Everyone seemed to be pointedly ignoring them; Clint couldn’t tell if was out of respect or disgust, but he appreciated the breathing space. He also appreciated being able to run his fingertips up the inseam of Phil’s slacks without anyone seeing. And he _loved_ being able to lean in close enough to hear the hitch in Phil’s breathing while he rubbed the base of his hand slowly over the hardening bulge behind Phil’s fly. 

“We have to get through this list, Clint,” Phil muttered. “And I’m not going to be _that_ easily distracted.”

“Is that a challenge?” Clint scraped his nails over the fabric stretched across Phil’s balls. “Because I’m willing to work for it.”

Phil’s jaw set, but his thighs splayed open to give Clint easier access. The fact that they kept working while Clint was _working_ made everything hotter. Especially when Phil managed to discover four more missing entries in the electronic files B and R had provided. Clint’s own arousal kicked up still one _more_ level when Phil managed to cross-reference one of them as a pay _out_ to the account that hired Clint and Nat to retrieve the stolen plans.

Before he let Phil announce their find to the group, Clint dragged him off to Phil’s bedroom where they locked the door and made do with peeling off shirts and shoving each other’s pants to their knees. Clint had spent so long teasing that he was ready to go, and Phil was readier still. They were cleaned up and back in the dining room, flushed and relaxed, within fifteen minutes.

Supper passed the same as lunch, the rest of the team drifting in and out, discussing tactics and where to place listening equipment. Clint lost track of most of the conversation around him, distracted by staring at the edge of the bruise he’d left just below the collar of Phil’s t-shirt. No one else found anything new, and Clint silently patted himself on the back for stimulating Phil’s mind while stimulating his… head.

Shouting at the other end of the table finally dragged Clint’s attention away from Phil’s lovebites and back to the present. Zeg and Sitwell were both on their feet, Sitwell leaning both fists on the table, and Zeg drawn up to their full height, arms crossed over their chest. Their difference in heights gave them a bit of the appearance of an angry Staffordshire terrier puppy confronting an offended Afghanhound. 

“ _That_ has to come off. It makes you look uncouth and _far_ too old for the service!” Zeg pursed their lips and arched one eyebrow. “And we wouldn’t be caught dead kissing it.”

“Hey, no one said anything about kissing!” Sitwell shot upright, and Clint heard Phil stifle a snicker. “I didn’t agree to any kissing!”

“We wouldn’t dream of it, lamb,” Zeg said, voice smokey and amused. “But we must _imply_ that we have, are, and will be kissing. And we would _not_ kiss that.”

“You have something against facial hair?” Sitwell had his own arms folded over his chest by then, and he was squinting angrily behind his glasses. 

“Not in _general_.” Zeg’s irritation faded, replaced by a small, private, _warm_ smile. “There is some of which we are quite fond. But that fur is _not_ yours. Shave it.”

They abruptly turned and swept from the room with their chin a bit too high and a pink tint to their pale cheeks.

That seemed to be everyone’s cue to quit for the night. Phil marked their place on the computer while Clint ticked their last checked entry on the physical paperwork. 

“Come have a beer with me.” Clint leaned close to whisper the words directly into Phil’s ear. 

“And where do you propose we do that?” Phil turned his head, and Clint took the opportunity to brush his lips against the softness of Phil’s earlobe. “Have I missed some exciting bar where I could have been taking you all week long?”

“Nah, come out to the courtyard. Basil mentioned that there are choices in the fridge.” Clint nipped at Phil’s jaw just to hear the tiny whisper of a moan it elicited. “Come on. Just you, me, and the stars.” He closed his eyes, inhaling the hint of sweat from Phil’s neck. He felt Phil nod and grinned.

“Okay. I’ll see you there in ten?” Phil brushed a soft kiss across Clint’s bottom lip. He waggled his eyebrows with cartoon suggestiveness and said, “Let me slip into something a little more comfortable.”

Clint threw back his head to laugh, and neither of them noticed the eyerolls from everyone else in the room or the worried frown from Natasha that she quickly turned away to hide.

____

By the time Phil had changed and stepped out into the chilly night air of the courtyard, Clint was already relaxing on a lounge, a pair of beers on the table beside him. He’d decided to also follow Phil’s excellent suggestion and switch out his jeans for a pair of sweatpants. Warmer, for one thing. Softer for another. And, well, elastic waistband. Easier access. Just in case. 

Phil made his way across the worn-smooth stones of the courtyard, and Clint drank in the way he moved, the breadth of his shoulders under the moonlight, the fluidity and surety of his stride in the dark. Clint grinned when he realized that Phil was actually back in his sleep pants with a hoodie thrown on over the top. 

_Soft and touchable, indeed!_

“Hey, babe.” Clint lifted the edge of the blanket that he’d thrown over his legs. “Cold out here. Come warm me up.”

Phil slid in beside him, and Clint immediately shifted to tuck as tightly along Phil’s side as he could, scooting lower until his head was pillowed on one of Phil’s broad, strong shoulders. He pulled the blanket higher, tucking it around them as much as he was able from underneath it.

“Hi there,” Phil said softly when they were settled. Clint could hear the smile in Phil’s voice, and turned his face up to kiss it off of Phil’s lips. “Now that you have me where you want me, what are you going to do with me?”

“Get you not drunk. Utterly fail to take advantage of you. Probably try really hard not to fall asleep on you, because it’d be rather cold and we’d probably piss a few people off if we didn’t make it in at _some_ point.” Clint reached a hand behind him, unerringly snagging both bottles, handing one off to Phil. “Thought it’d be easier like this than in glasses.”

“You thought right.” Phil took a long pull from his own. “This is… You had a good idea.”

“All my ideas are good.” Clint said, settling down, shoulder resting on Phil’s chest and his arm flung across Phil’s stomach under the blanket. His fingers found the point of Phil’s hip through the worn flannel of his pants and wrapped his palm around Phil’s flank, thumb circling the jut of bone. _Except this idea,_ Clint thought. _This_ you _idea. The one where I went and fell in love with you. The one where I find the perfect man, and he’s too good for me, and I can’t keep him._ He sighed lightly. “ _Nearly_ all my ideas are good.”

“Deciding to run away from me when we were so unexpectedly introduced at the restaurant wasn’t your best.” Phil shuffled until his arm was wrapped around the back of Clint’s shoulders, fingers playing with the hair at Clint’s temple. He took a breath as if to speak, let it out in a long sigh, and took a drink from his beer, and then sucked in air to try again. “What did you think I was going to do, Clint? All that finding out the truth meant was that I could quit worrying about keeping you safe-- since you’re clearly up to that by yourself-- and that we could have this without all the damn lies. The guilt.”

“I just… There are a lot of rumors out there about you, _Agent Coulson_.” Clint turned himself further into the cradle of Phil’s chest and hips, ignoring the discomfort of the twist in his back. “Your reputation has you larger than life.” _Which is true in your pants._ “And I just… I didn’t know what you’d want with some two-bit assassin-turned-merc. If you wanted Anton… I’m not Anton. Not nearly that young, and I don’t think I was ever that defenseless or naive.”

“I wasn’t supposed to have a _real_ person waiting on me in Amsterdam.” Phil tipped his head back to look up toward the stars, interspersing his words with swallows of beer as he talked. “That was Jasper’s screwup. I was supposed to _appear_ to have been matched with Malene. We’d pretend to date, spend a few nights in my hotel so it looked like we’d been sleeping together, head into the reception together like a matched set.” Phil set the bottle on the ground beside him so he could wrap both arms around Clint. 

Clint wasn’t sure what Phil was trying to say, but it didn’t matter. That moment was perfect: lying together beneath the stars, Phil’s gentle voice washing over him.

“Jasper sent in the wrong paperwork. By the time we figured that out, it was too late to change anything. I only found out when I was given a _perfect match_.” Phil chuckled, and, it only sounded a little bitter. “What he didn’t tell me was that he’d intentionally changed the preference from ‘female’ to ‘male.’ I didn’t know _that_ detail until Natasha mentioned her brother. You were… quite the surprise.”

“So you’re not all gay?” Clint sat up to grin over his shoulder. He supposed it was _just_ possible that the sex was all for the mission, although the way the man gave head said otherwise. Or that Phil had given in out of some weird sense of duty, which would make this the _weirdest_ case of gay for pay Clint had ever heard of. And, again, Phil sucked cock and ate ass like he couldn’t get enough.

“I’m bi, actually.” Phil pulled Clint close again and nuzzled in against the side of his neck. “But I have a definite preference for men. I… I asked for a woman, so I wouldn’t get attached.” 

_And that was a year’s worth of spank bank deposits!_ Clint thought, considering what Phil would look like with his face buried in the softness of a pair of breasts.

Clint found himself turned and brought back to the present by a gentle tug from Phil’s hand. “Instead I got you. And I am so damned glad I did. You’ve been way more fun than anyone else I’ve been on a mission with. And you have by _far_ the nicest ass.”

After a confession like that, there wasn’t much else for Clint to do but kiss Phil into submission before wrapping back around him. They sat for over an hour, drinks long-finished, holding and being held, not speaking. Clint found himself trying to keep his breathing even, blinking when the stars blurred, pressing closer ever time Phil’s fingertips squeezed his own where they’d somehow ended up with their hands clasped tightly together.

Malene finally dragged them both inside, calling from a doorway, “Phillip? Jasper and Maria need you to come mediate _another_ fight. And please side with Maria and I that Jasper _must_ have a better tie for the reception, yeah?”

Clint was the first to his feet, pulling Phil up after him, keeping him in the cold and the dark just a _few_ more minutes to rememorize the feeling of their mouths moving together.

____

Maria could _not_ get her eyes open. Phil had crawled into bed like an ice cube, sticking cold hands on her back and his cold nose against her neck. Those were things she could have dealt with. It was the ridiculous _sighing_ , the tiny hums of bliss or whatever had him all dreamy and snuggly and _annoying_ that had kept her awake far too long. She finally kicked the shit out of his shin and told him to go snuggle Jas if he wanted to keep his balls intact.

Of course, _that_ had backfired when he took half the covers and all of his body warmth with him.

So she was guzzling coffee at an alarming rate, trying to get herself conscious enough for the shopping expedition. Phil was going to stay in the house with his boytoy, and Maria somehow ended up being the last one in the kitchen with them as everyone else headed to the entry.

“Try not to get anything disgusting on any communal surfaces,” she snapped, pausing just long enough to squeeze Phil’s shoulder before she headed to the front door. 

Outside she found a limo with Zeg’s driver-cum-houseboy holding the door for her, everyone else already loaded in the back. Basil gave her a friendly smile, waiting until she was settled onto the seat beside Jasper to close the door and head around to the driver’s seat.

Two days to the reception, and they _still_ had more things to collect. Granted, it was mostly clothing to dress Jas up pretty-- Maria couldn’t help the snicker at her sudden vision of Jasper in a dress with a bow taped to his head-- and a few more pieces of information. Maria didn’t like leaving things so very close to the deadline. It went against everything she’d learned at Fury’s side: Make plans. Know your plans. Have backup plans for your backup plans so nothing would _ever_ take you by surprise. 

_Phil with his fetish for planning on the fly is probably_ loving _this,_ she thought bitterly, staring out the window.

“How long do you think it'll take 'em to get their pants off?” Jasper elbowed Maria, and she swallowed down the urge to punch him in the face. She wasn't sure why she was feeling so short with him, but, for the first time in over a decade, she was finding him genuinely irritating.

_Just the circumstances. Just a reaction to how unsettled the mission still is._

“What makes you think they’re still dressed now?” In the rear-facing seat, Malene lifted one eyebrow, and Jas cracked up. Maria sighed and set her jaw: Malene was more irritating than Jasper.

“We’re not even out of the driveway,” Zeg interjected from where they sat on the other side of Jasper, one long arm stretched along the back of the seat. Their hand brushed Maria’s shoulder, and she couldn’t be certain if it was meant as a comforting gesture or if it had been an accident. “Surely they have more control than _that_.”

“Have you _met_ my partner?” Romanov said from where she sat in the corner of the bench seat she shared with Malene, raising one eyebrow. “Self control is a foreign concept to that one.”

Jas snorted. “He’s done a number on _Phil’s_ self-control, that’s for damn sure. Never seen Phil salivate like that over someone.”

Maria glanced out the window, but she kept her attention on Romanov, watching from the corner of her eye as Romanov’s expression turned faintly calculating.

“So your Coulson is not prone to this kind of thing?” She kept her voice light, barely interested, but Maria could read the tension in the line of her neck, the sudden tightness in her wrists while her hands _did not_ clench; that lack of movement clearly took a great deal of self-control. “He doesn’t often pick up pretty boys and… seduce them?”

Malene caught Maria’s reflected gaze and smiled, quickly stifling the expression. She turned to Romanov and answered for both of the other two. “I’ve known Phil Coulson for… over a decade now, and I have never seen him quite so smitten. It’s clear that he thinks your partner is someone very special.”

Romanov subsided into the seat and looked toward the window. “Well, he’s not wrong about Clint being _special_. Of that there is no doubt.”

Maria bit her lip to hide her own smile: The Black Widow might be known for being cold and emotionless, but Natasha Romanov was clearly very fond of Clint Barton, even when she was mocking him.

“I’ve never seen Phil seduce _anyone_ ,” Maria said gently. “And I’ve never seen anyone slobber over him quite so much, either.”

“So what _do_ you think they’re doing, and do you think they’ll find clothing before we get back?” Jasper asked, and then he flinched as Zeg flicked him in the back of the head.

“Don’t be gauche. Hawkeye said he was going to practice with his bow, so Basil set up a target for him.” Zeg overrode any answers the women might be entertaining. “Agent Coulson was going to make use of our courtyard for some fresh air and exercise, and I believe he said something about possibly using Basil’s weight bench. We’re expecting information to be delivered from another informant this afternoon, and they both promised to start the analysis.” They tossed a bright smile around the car. “So, clearly, whatever they get up to will have to hurry.”

Maria noticed that Romanov didn’t even pretend to laugh as everyone else did.

____

Clint nocked the arrow, sucked in a breath as he drew, let it out, drew in another, held it… then let fly, the whisper of a perfectly-crafted arrow cutting through the air felt but not heard. Not that Clint would have been listening for it, even if he didn’t know that it was too quiet for his electronic ears. 

The sound that had every _bit_ of Clint’s attention was the steady thump of a pair of battered tennis shoes that were making their way around the perimeter of the large courtyard. The rhythm of the footsteps faltered when they neared the target at one end of yard, preparing to turn around and go back the other direction and around to the other side of the target before repeating the path.

“You can go across.” Clint nocked another arrow and inhaled through his draw, spreading his chest and relaxing his shoulders. “‘M not gonna hit _you_. I never miss.”

“Never miss, huh?” Clint could hear the grin in Phil’s voice. “I thought that was just hype for your file.”

“I _never_ miss.” Clint looked over at Phil, making sure to hold eye contact as he released the arrow, not looking as it flew to the target. “Want proof? Run through. Don’t break stride and don’t trip. Not that it’d matter much, but it’ll be easier for me to _really_ show off if you don’t.” He walked forward to retrieve all the arrows currently making the target into a hedgehog. “Right up against the target, okay?”

Phil raised one eyebrow skeptically, but began running again, loping past the target. Clint closed his eyes as he walked back to his starting position, memorizing the footfalls, picturing Phil’s body position as he ran easily around the yard again. He reached over his shoulder, his own muscles tensing minutely, as if to match Phil’s every movement.

Three arrows between his fingers. Nocks on string. Breathe and draw. Open his eyes.

Hold. 

Hold. 

_Hold_.

Release.

All three arrows thudded into the target, and Phil’s footsteps halted as he found himself neatly pinned: one arrow in front of his chest; one just behind the small of his back; one in front of his thighs. 

“How the… What… Damn!” The look of stunned admiration on Phil’s face made Clint’s heart stutter and then thump harder. “How the _hell_ does that even work?”

Clint grinned. “Told you. I _never_ miss.”

Phil edged free and sauntered toward Clint. He reached out to touch as soon as they were within touching distance.

“I’ve never shot a bow.” His fingertips tracing down the back of Clint’s arms left a trail of goosebumps. “So while I can say that _looked_ like something difficult to do, I have no basis of comparison. Show me?”

“Show you how to do that?” Clint grinned. “You might be overestimating my teaching skills and how long we have for a lesson.”

Phil’s lips thinned in an exasperated pinch that made Clint laugh. 

“I’m not asking you to teach me anything.” Phil sounded snippy, but Clint could see the twinkle in his eyes. “I just want you to show me how _you_ line up something like that.”

Clint chewed his bottom lip, considering. “Okay. I can do that. But first you have to shoot for me. You really never have? Not even in the Boy Scouts or whatever?”

“What the _Hell_ makes you think I was a Boy Scout?” Phil grinned at him, bright and wolfish. “Really, what part of queer city boy suggests that I would be caught _dead_ in one of those uniforms?” 

He caught Clint’s hips and drew him close to capture the shout of laughter in a kiss. 

“Quit trying to distract me and try on my guard, already.” Clint shoved the strip of smooth leather with its dangling straps at Phil. “Can’t have your wrist hurting too much for our shower later.”

“There’s a shower later?” Phil asked lightly. 

“Damn sure better be, if I’m going to survive seeing you with my bow in your hands right now.”

____

“Director!” Jasper allowed himself one paranoid moment where he wondered if his boss knew he wasn’t wearing pants. 

“What the _hell_ is going on over there, Sitwell?” Fury’s angry growl was slightly less disconcerting over the phone than in his office, face-to-eyepatch with the man. But only so _very_ slightly. Particularly with the aforementioned lack of trousers. “Waarzegster isn’t telling me _shit_ about what you all are up to. They _did_ say that you’re escorting them to this damned party, however.”

“Yes, sir.” Jasper cleared his throat. “You’re in contact with Zeg, sir?”

“I’ve been in contact with Zeg since you were still in diapers.” Fury snorted. “And I like ‘em better than you, too. So you mind your damned manners when you’re out with them. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir.” Jasper rolled his eyes and rubbed a hand over his scalp. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and fought off a laugh. There he stood, in a dressing room, wearing the most expensive shirt he’d ever had on, most expensive tie he’d ever _touched_ draped loosely around his neck, lower half only in a pair of Christmas boxers covered in Smurfs (they were a gift from Mars and Phil, and they were astonishingly comfy) and his dress socks. He snorted at himself.

“You don’t seem to understand the gravity of this situation, Agent Sitwell.” Fury’s voice went colder, harder. “You will be an absolute gentleman to Waarzegster. You will do _everything_ they ask of you, including shaving that goddamned scruff off your face. If you fail to be anything other than the perfect date, I will have you liaising with the US military. You’ll be attached so tightly to Colonel Talbot, you will be sleeping at the foot of his goddamned _bed_. Do you understand me, Agent?”

 _What the hell? Who_ is _Zeg to Fury, anyway?_ Jasper thought about the drugged ramblings of Nick Fury when they’d been on that mission in Brazil. He _hoped_ the story about the baguette, the monk’s belt, and the olive oil wasn’t about Zeg. That would make things… uncomfortable. Just the _image_ of that...

“I understand every word, sir.” Jasper shook his head, trying to clear the puzzle. “I will be the best date Waarzegster has ever had.”

Fury mumbled to himself and hung up. 

It took several hours before Jas realized that the last thing he’d heard Fury say was “Better not be… Best damned date, my ass.”

____

Arriving back at Zeg’s, Nat was relieved to find that Clint and Phil were both dressed. She was somewhat less pleased to see that their heads were leaning together over a computer screen in the dining room, and that Coulson’s left hand was under the the table, presumably resting on Clint’s thigh. Both of their heads swiveled up in sync when Sitwell cleared his throat. 

“Nat, we’ve got them.” Clint’s face lit up, and her irritation evaporated under the glow of his smile. “Look at this!”

She slipped past the rest of the crowd and moved around the table to look over Clint’s shoulder. A glance down confirmed that, yes, Phil’s hand was resting on Clint’s thigh, but Clint’s fingers were wrapped over it, keeping it in place. She did her best to ignore it as Hill, Sitwell, Beck, and Zeg crowded in behind her. Basil had wandered off toward the kitchen, muttering something about supper as he went.

“What am I looking at?’” Nat scowled at the screen. “I mean, banking statements but…”

“It’s the account that paid us.” Clint pointed at an unidentified withdrawal. “Right there. That’s the money going to B and R.”

“Now look at this.” Phil scrolled down. “There are four more withdrawals over the next eight months. Two in China, one in Russian, and another in Azerbaijan.”

“Where rumors said the plans went after Russia. Where we would have gone next, most likely.” Nat bit her lip. “But I got caught.”

Clint released his grip on Phil’s hand and reached back to catch Nat’s wrist. “It’s a damn good thing you did, Nat, because that’s the only proof we have right now that _we_ weren’t the ones using this account. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to _keep_ it from happening, but if it hadn’t, if we hadn’t ended up caught on camera in St. Petersburg six hours after this withdrawal, Phil would have put a bullet in my head as soon as this was decrypted today.”

She leaned into Clint’s shoulder and exchanged a long look with Coulson. The man had a good poker face, she’d give him that, but it was nowhere near good enough to fool the Black Widow. There was relief, happiness, and a lot of self-doubt hidden in the lines around his eyes. _No, Clint. He wouldn’t have been able to kill you. And maybe he isn’t_ quite _as dangerous to you as I’ve accused him of being._

“So we know that _someone_ had access to your itinerary by merit of leading you around by your noses.” Phil’s hand squeezed once on Clint’s leg and then came up to join his right on the keyboard. “How were you getting your intel on when and where to move?”

“Rumors, mostly.” Nat leaned down, one elbow on each of the men’s shoulders. “I thought at the time it was a bit convenient that the plans were so easy to trace, but we didn’t have a chance to sit still or make solid contacts to check the veracity of our informants.” She shrugged. “Not with Clint indiscriminately blowing up warehouses left and right.”

“Hey, the fire at the docks was all on you.” Clint shrugged hard, knocking Nat’s elbow loose, and she laughed, squeezing the back of his neck. The muscles were looser than they’d been in months, and Nat was starting to feel much the same. Coulson grinned up at her, and she found herself smiling back.

“Now that we know the history, mind sharing with the class how you arrived at us now ‘having them?’” Sitwell leaned both fists on the table beside Phil’s chair; Hill draped herself along his side for a better view.

“Is that…?” Hill pointed at the bottom line on the statement. “That’s last week.”

“It is indeed, ma’am.” Clint grinned around Nat where she was still leaning against Coulson’s shoulder. And, okay, maybe she could see why Clint spent so much time waxing poetic about these shoulders. It was a surprisingly comfortable place to lean. “Rental payment. In Amsterdam. For a vacant office building.”

Zeg leaned back against the wall, biting at a knuckle and smiling a cold, distant sort of smile; whatever or whoever that smile was aimed at was clearly in for an unpleasant time. “Forward us the information you have, and we’ll check into that building. Wouldn’t hurt to know who owns it and see if they know what their property is being used for. Storage, you think? Or another distraction?”

“Ima have to guess storage.” Clint reached out to rest his own palm on Phil’s thigh, and Nat resisted the urge to slap his hand away. It was time for her to let go of her resistance to their touching and being touched thing; it was only going to last one day more. “But that depends on if they’re still trying to use this account to frame us, or if they assume we still don’t know about it. If they’ve given up on framing us, they may just be using it as an ordinary account. ”

“We’ll know more by supper then,” Zeg said, pushing away from the wall. “See you all back here in an hour.”

____

“So if Zeg owns the building, and we don’t know who’s renting it, we still don’t know who the account is.” Clint peeled his shirt over his head, wadding it in his hands. He was getting so damned tired of this mess. Again. As soon as it looked like things were clearing up, they just… didn’t. “Do you think we can trust them? Zeg, I mean.”

“Jas talked to my boss while they were all out shopping.” Phil’s hands trailed down Clint’s arms, pulling the shirt out of his hands and dropping it on the floor before reaching back to stroke gently over Clint’s abs. “Apparently Fury’s known them for decades, and he trusts them. I usually trust his judgement.”

Clint shivered and leaned forward, trying to get Phil’s hands to explore a little further. He sighed happily as Phil obliged, letting one hand slide up Clint’s chest to the side of his neck. Phil’s other hand splayed across Clint’s hip, fingers digging into the dip of muscle above the bone. _That_ hand made Clint shiver and weakened his knees. “Does that really mean anything in this business, though? I mean, what did he _say_ about Zeg?”

Phil smiled, and Clint reached up to touch the creases at the corner of his eye. “Apparently Fury gave the impression that he’s… _fond_ of Zeg.”

Dropping his hand abruptly, Clint spun to turn on the shower. “So he’s compromised. Like you.”

“Clint…” Phil pulled him back around, arms warm and secure as they slipped around Clint’s ribs, hands splaying hot and possessive over his back. “I don’t know if it’s like me or not. But… I don’t mind being compromised. Not for you. Not at all. And just because _I_ am does not mean I’m compromising this mission.”

Clint muffled a sigh against the side of Phil’s neck, returning the embrace. “Zeg doesn’t even know where they got the damned building or who is renting it. They say. So…”

“We’ll figure it out, babe.” Phil kissed him until Clint’s shoulders drooped as he let his words drift away. “Just… get in the shower with me. We’ll think about it when we’re back in planning sessions tomorrow.”

Once they were under the hot water, hands sliding over wet skin, Clint let himself wish they could have one more night in an actual bed: mutual dick sucking sounded like the best idea he’d ever had, and there was just no good way to make it happen in Zeg’s stupidly large shower stall.  
____

“They’re probably all plastered to the windows, hoping we’ll put on a show.” Clint hadn’t made any sign that he’d seen Phil slip out the door to watch, but he’d clearly been aware all along. “So are you going to come over here and give the people what they want?”

“I like the view from here.” It wasn’t a lie. Phil was in a perfect spot to both ogle Clint’s extremely well-formed ass _and_ enjoy his archery form. Not that Phil knew a damn thing about archery, in spite of their impromptu lesson the day before. Granted, he’d been more focused on Clint’s chest pressed against his own back at the time… “But what kind of show did you have in mind?”

He pushed off from the pillar where he’d been resting and sauntered across the worn stones of the courtyard. Clint took a slow breath, held it, and released the arrow he held nocked. Phil slid in against his back, arms sliding easily around Clint’s waist, chin settling onto the muscles of his shoulder. 

“You’re really incredible at that, you know.” Phil nuzzled against Clint’s cheek, smiling as Clint turned his face closer. 

“Yeah, actually.” Clint grinned and closed his eyes as Phil kissed along his jaw. “I do know. It’s the one thing I _know_ I’m the best at. Kinda had it drilled into me the hard way. Miss and get hurt. Hit the target every time, and get praise. Wasn’t hard to figure out how to never miss.”

Phil swallowed down a sudden surge of bile at the thought of young Clint afraid, in pain. One of his hands slid up to rest against Clint’s chest, to feel the steady thump of the heart beneath those ribs. 

“It’s okay, babe.” Clint lowered the bow and curled his fingers loosely around Phil’s wrist, pressing Phil’s palm harder into his chest. “See, I got out. I’m okay. I’ve managed to turn all that into a pretty decent career. And sometimes I even get to seduce really hot SHIELD agents with my marksmanship.” 

“Is that what this is?” Forcing himself to push away the sympathy Clint so clearly _did not_ want, Phil tightened both arms around Clint and pressed his hips forward, cradling Clint’s plush rear in the curve of his pelvis. Clint laughed and relaxed in his grip, settling his ass back against Phil’s groin. “Are you trying to get me all hot and bothered with your unique job skills?”

“Gotta use what I have.” Clint turned in Phil’s arms, still holding his bow, slipping his free hand around Phil’s shoulders. “Is it working?”

“If I say yes,” Phil said, and then paused to kiss Clint’s lips lightly before continuing, “does that mean we get to go for it right here in the courtyard?”

“If by ‘it,’ you mean a shooting competition,” Clint stepped away from Phil and walked toward where his bow case was lying open on nearby lounge, “then count me in. I’d love to check out your marksmanship.”

“I’ll _show_ you how I shoot!” Phil gave his sexiest smile and quirked one eyebrow, and Clint nearly dropped his bow as he started laughing. He clutched her close for a moment before lowering her into the case.

“Don’t _do_ that to me when I’m holding my baby, you ass!” He carefully closed the lid and locked the latches before turning toward the target to collect his arrows. “I’m not even kidding a little; I’ll choose her over you!”

The strangled half-sob that caught in Phil’s throat seemed to surprise them both, and Clint changed direction, leaving the arrows where they were as he headed toward Phil. They were both reaching before Clint was within touching distance. Clint’s fingers cupped Phil’s jaw, and his lips traced a path over the bridge of Phil’s nose, along his cheekbone. Phil pressed into the touch, desperately trying to get closer.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to say that.” Clint’s voice was thick and worried. “I know we don’t… we haven’t…” 

_Guess it’s time to stop ignoring this_ thing _between us._ Phil took a deep breath, trying to collect enough air to speak.

“Clint.” Phil wasn’t surprised to find himself white-knuckling the front of Clint’s shirt. “Clint, no, it’s okay. We probably _should_ talk about this. One more day and all.”

“What’s there to talk about, babe?” Clint’s arms slid around Phil’s waist and his head dropped to Phil’s shoulder; Phil took advantage of the position to inhale a fortifying breath of the grassy scent of Clint’s skin. “We both know how this is gonna end, right? Why do we have to… We both know the score.”

“Yeah.” Phil huffed a sigh before pressing his face into the side of Clint’s neck. His next words came out slightly muffled. “Doesn’t mean I regret a damned minute of this, though. Won’t keep it from hurting like hell. And it’s not going to stop me from missing you for--” _ever_ \-- “a long damn time.”

Clint pulled back to stare into Phil’s face, eyes wide and dark and damp. “You mean that? Do you _promise_ , Phil? You’re not gonna just go back and immediately forget me?”

Phil stepped entirely out of Clint’s embrace. He took Clint’s jaw between his palms, staring into his eyes.

“Clint Barton, have I given you one sign that this is just a damn _fling_ for me?” His hands were shaking, fingers twitching against Clint’s cheeks, and Clint’s eyes went from damp to positively watery. “If I have made you feel forgettable or unimportant, or in any way as less than the most incredible man I have ever met in my _entire life_ , I am so, so sorry. You will _always_ be the one that got away, and I am damned proud to have known you. I…” Phil stopped to clear his throat before he could go on. “I don’t know what I did to deserve these few weeks with you, but they have been the best four weeks of my life.”

“Awww, Phil. Dammit.” Clint leaned in until their foreheads were pressed together, and then slowly raised his arms to slide them around Phil’s neck. “You just… That’s… Shit.”

“Words, Barton. It’s much easier to understand you with words.” Phil smiled, and then he sniffed; he was genuinely unsurprised to find that his own cheeks were damp and his nose had gone stuffy. 

Clint gave a watery chuckle and tilted his face to brush his lips against the apple of Phil’s cheek before kissing his way along Phil’s jaw to his neck.

“Same, babe.” His voice was muffled, but it still warmed Phil from his scalp to his toes. “Exactly the same here.”

Phil stroked his fingertips along the ridges of Clint’s ribs for a moment. He _knew_ the next words he said would be a bad idea, knew they wouldn’t be well-received. Mostly he just knew the answer would be no, but hearing Clint decline would hurt. Still… 

_I have to try. Just once._

“There’s… there’s another option.” He took a deep breath. “You could come back with me. You and Natasha both. To New York. Join SHIELD. I mean, you could join wherever you are. Wherever your home base is. Come… come work for us. With us.” He swallowed, desperately trying to wet his throat. “With me.”

Clint was out of his arms and backing away before Phil finished his sentence. 

“You can’t… You don’t…” Clint squinted, head tipping inquisitively to the side, the sun making his golden hair glint. “You _do_ mean that, don’t you.” He rubbed both hands over his face. “I… Wow!”

“I can make it happen.” Phil took another breath, trying to calm the shaking in his hands

“Babe, I want to take you up on that. I _would_ take you up on that.” Clint swooped forward and took Phil’s face in his hands, kissing him hard and fast. “But I can’t. I _can’t_. For two reasons. Fuck, I want to, though!” 

Phil opened his mouth to speak, and Clint quickly kissed away anything he might have said.

“No. Listen to me.” He kissed Phil brusquely once again. “Nat. She’d never go for that. She knows that it would be _you_ asking _your boyfriend._ She wouldn’t trust that. There’s not any space there for her. No room in that equation.”

“But there would be, Clint.” Phil’s hands locked around Clint’s wrists, squeezing, trying to force Clint to understand. “SHIELD would love to have the Black Widow. We’d make a place for her. With the two of us, too. She’s _important_ to you, so she’s important to me, too.”

“I know that, babe. I appreciate the hell out of it, and I _know_ that. But she doesn’t. Can’t.” Clint heaved a sigh and kissed Phil again, perfunctorily, as if he didn’t even notice he was doing it anymore. “She’s been through too much with… Well, with everything. She’s not a joiner. Her last set of former coworkers tied her to a chair and beat on her for a couple of days just a few months ago, Phil. Even the _suggestion_ of hooking up with SHIELD would probably send her into hysterics right now. And people around hysterical Nat tend to die. It’s not pretty.” He grinned, sharp and wolfish. “Yes, that was a joke. Mostly.”

Phil sighed and reached for Clint’s hips to draw him into the circle of Phil’s arms. “I don’t really _understand_ ,” he said. “But I think I can get it. Not the way I operate, but I can see why she does. I just wish…” He trailed off helplessly. _I wish I could have you forever. I want to take you home and wake up to you every morning. Go to bed with you every night. Want you to have SHIELD watching your back, so I don’t have to worry about who is setting you up, who is trying to kill you, and what illegal shit you’re going to get up to next._

“Me too, babe.” Clint’s arms were back around Phil’s shoulders, and they clung. “But, well. That’s the other problem. What happens if things go south between us? What if you… what if we get sick of each other?”

“What?” Phil’s brain fumbled to a halt. _As if he could ever “get sick” of Clint. Although maybe Clint was starting to become bored with Phil. Maybe they…_ Didn’t matter. Clint would _still_ be looked after. Even if he didn’t want Phil. Phil wanted Clint to be happy. Safe. Cared for. “SHIELD wouldn’t kick you out. One of us could transfer. I’d go to DC. The Director has been trying to get me there for a few years now. Mars, too, so she’d move with me. And where we go, apparently so does Jas.” 

Clint had inched closer while Phil was speaking, and Phil took his chance to go back to kissing Clint’s lips. There was a soft sigh followed by a small groan as their lips parted jointly to make way for the tips of their tongues to brush together. The sun was warm against Phil’s scalp, but Clint was twice as warm against his chest. And, this… well, Phil’s doubts about Clint’s interest were starting to melt away under the insistence of the heat that built between them.

“Do you ever _really_ see this going bad?” Phil closed his eyes as he pulled away to ask, not wanting to see Clint’s expression as he broke Phil’s heart.

Clint took a deep breath that shook as he let it out. “Phil, babe? Look at me.” He waited until Phil found the courage to look up before continuing. “Do I see this falling apart? No. _Hell_ no. But… No one ever sees the end coming from this early on. No one ever can.”

“It’s just not… it’s not _fair_. That we never had a chance. That I found you like this, and that all we’ll ever get is these four damned weeks.” Phil sighed and shook his head. Fair wasn’t a word he ever used, but the complaint was pushed out of him. 

A sob caught in Clint’s throat as his arms tightened painfully around Phil’s body. “I know, babe. I know, and I’m sorry.” He took another breath that ruffled through Phil’s hair as he squeezed. “I still don’t regret one damned minute of this, though. At least I know you’re out there now.”

They stood together in the courtyard, and Phil turned off his internal timer. He didn’t want to know how long they had been there, how long they had. He mostly just wanted to hold and be held and _wallow_ for as long as he could.

____

Clint spent the length of their embrace trying to get more _Phil_ up his nose, pressing in harder and harder, inhaling more deeply on each breath. 

Phil sighed against him and pulled back enough to speak, temple resting against Clint’s.

“Do you think that you and Nat would ever…” Phil trailed off, swallowed and tried again. “Could the two of you, you know, make a go of it? Be--” he coughed-- “together?”

And Clint couldn’t help his response: he started laughing so hard he snorted and had to pull away to lean over, hands bracing on his thighs as he tried to get himself under control.

“No, Phil.” He was still wheezing, but some of the tightness in his chest had finally let loose. “Oh _God_ no! We tried that before. It was, well, to be honest, it was very exciting. But it wasn’t much fun. For either of us. And it could have ended _very_ badly had we not decided by then that we both needed a real _friend_.”

Phil rumbled an unhappy hum.

“It’s not so bad, okay?” Clint caught Phil’s ribs to pull him back into kissing range. He tested his access to Phil’s lips once… twice… before continuing. “‘M not gonna spend the rest of my life moping and lonely. And you’re not going to, either. You can’t. You’re too good for that. You gotta find someone to take care of you, too. Find someone who’ll… who’ll appreciate that giant dick and the things you can do with it.” He had to force the smile that went with the words when the damn things tried to hang up in his throat. “ _Promise_ me you’re going to be okay, babe? Promise you won’t mope forever?”

“Of course not, Clint.” Phil’s lips smiled, but his eye crinkles didn’t put in an appearance. “I have SHIELD to keep me busy and in trouble and to utterly fail to keep me warm at night. It’s… I’m not gonna lie, it’s the life I’m made for. I just wish…”

Clint snorted and kissed him again. “I get it, babe. I really do. And me, too.”

Phil’s arms finally came up to wrap Clint close, and Clint snuggled in, consciously trying to get his shoulders to shrink so he could get a bit closer. Phil’s quiet sigh and the way his body relaxed as Clint returned the tightening grip was glorious and felt like an award for a job well done. Clint squeezed tighter.

“So… Phil?” Clint snuffled but didn’t release his grip. “What’s everyone else up to in there?”

“Last I checked, everyone was going over the gear for tomorrow.”

“So there’s not a room free for us to try out?” Clint licked his lip. “Nowhere with a counter or a couch or the side of a bed for you to bend me over?”

There was a pregnant pause during which all of Clint’s attention became focused on the sudden twitch against his hip. He shifted his legs to give Phil a bit of friction, and Phil let out a tiny wheeze that might have been a whine. 

“I’m sorry, Clint. I think we’re out of luck.” Phil gulped audibly. “I mean, we have the lounge right over there.”

“Not going for it with the sun up and Natasha telling me to behave myself around the nice SHIELD agents.” Clint’s hands started thinking for him, and began a slow, firm massage of Phil’s lower back, edging slowly lower to grip at his ass. 

Phil slid both of his own hands down to palm Clint’s ass and _gripped_. “Good thing I’m not one of the nice ones.”

“Fuck yes.” Clint gasped a breathless laugh and allowed himself a second or two of humping Phil’s thigh. “Dammit. _Really_ wanted that quickie right now.”

Phil choked on a laugh that seemed to force itself out of his throat, and ended up hanging weakly in Clint’s arms, being pounded on the back while he tried to catch his breath. Clint meant it, though, about wanting the quickie. Words were new and painful between them, but sex was familiar. Trusted. Didn’t mean much more than (an admittedly very _hot_ ) physical release.

_And it’ll all be okay as long we keep telling ourselves that._

“Well…” Phil slid his palms slowly down Clint’s abs, letting his fingers trail over every muscular ridge and valley, the touch and the heat to his eyes stealing Clint’s breath. “After everyone turns in, we could catch a shower.” 

“Sounds like a plan, Agent.” Clint caught Phil’s chin and pulled him close to kiss. “Let’s go get our own crap ready for tomorrow, and I’ll see you in a few hours. If we have enough towels, we can make you a cozy little bed on the floor, and I’ll ride you ‘til you scream.”

____

Phil endured Jasper’s ribbing about his pre-mission nerves. It wasn’t the mission that had his hands trembling, made him clumsy with his flatware over supper, had his fingers tripping over typos as he prepared the initial writeups on his reports. His brain was hung up on Clint. All Clint. Everything Clint. 

The way he’d looked in the sun and breeze of the afternoon, skin and hair glowing golden. How his arms went from impressive to indescribable as he drew his bow. The grace and power of his thighs and back and shoulders as he flexed and rolled, shooting smoothly from impossible positions. His eyes turning oceanic under the water of tears.

Excusing himself as quickly as he could, Phil gave Clint a pointed look from the doorway of the dining room as he headed into the hall. Clint had responded by licking his lips and winking, so Phil knew his message had been received and his invitation was accepted. Trying not to whistle, Phil ducked into the room he’d shared with his teammates since Clint and Nat had joined Zeg’s band of semi-captive secret agents. 

He froze just inside the door.

On the bed rested a wine cooler holding a bottle, a pair of goblets, and a note that read: 

_Room is all yours tonight. Don’t pull anything important. You both need to be able to move tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: A proposal accepted; An indecent proposal; Waarzegster in action
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my beautiful betas on this chapter. Seriously, you all owe them chocolate and hugs and flowers and naked dancing persons of their preferred gender/s. They were AMAZING on all of this. Seriously!
> 
> I know that waiting two weeks is hard on all of you. It’s a little hard on me, because I LOVE this story so much. But it’s also been SO much easier on me. I’ve had the energy and space to work on a few other things, which is good, because I owe a couple of things to a couple of people (you have not been forgotten about! It’s just been a weird year). The creative juices are flowing again, and my ideas and outlines folders are plumping up again. Plus I got a wild hair and started outlining a film. This is… abnormal behavior for me.
> 
> But there’re more fics ahead, plus some originals, a couple of novel ideas (that are, hopefully novel. Heh. Ouch. Sorry), and a few short stories. All in all, it’s been a BEAUTIFULLY productive two weeks.
> 
> And you got a HUGE chapter for this week. Things are shifting, and we’re making tracks toward the end!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Op Begins

____

Clint woke up with a hum under his skin and the muscular bulk of Phil cradled against his chest. Keeping his breathing steady to keep from disturbing his favorite sheet-warmer just yet, he eyed the grey daylight at the edges of the curtains and tried to figure out the time. It was warm under the covers, pressed to the sleep-humid softness of Phil’s back with their legs twisted together. Clint was afraid to try to move for fear of aggravating the muscles he was _certain_ he’d pulled the night before. He blinked at the slowly fading shadows on the ceiling, trying to decide if there was ample time to cuddle down against the freckled perfection of Phil’s shoulders to sleep or if they needed to get round three underway. 

_Wow, when was the last time we’ve had time for round three within twelve hours? Have we_ ever _had a round three within twelve hours?_

Clint shivered as a chill rushed down his spine.

It had been their last night together. Tonight came the mission, and tomorrow everyone would pack up and go home. Their friends had known that and taken pity on them. He’d known that it was their last night when he’d gone to the room he shared with Nat to collect his pajamas and found the door locked and Nat ignoring him. He’d still known it when Phil met him outside the bathroom and said Jas and Mars had given up the room, leaving the bed and a bottle of wine for Clint and Phil to share. He’d _known_ it, in his bones, when they’d decided to skip the shower and Phil had reached out to grab Clint by the arm.

Somewhere between the grabbing and the being dragged down the hall and thrown across the mattress with just the right amount of possessive roughness, Clint had forgotten why that night was so important. When Phil had stripped them both with more efficiency than gentleness, Clint had only been thinking of Phil’s bare skin. When Phil had climbed onto the bed and loomed with hot eyes and burning hands, Clint’s mind had been completely occupied with thoughts of getting fucked. And then Phil had grinned all tight and hungry, and he’d turned, swinging a leg over Clint’s shoulder and licking him from tip to root. 

With a breathy groan, Clint lost himself in the memory: how he’d shoved Phil down beside him before curling onto his side; locking his thighs around Phil’s head; the tickle of leg hair on his cheek; the weight and taste of Phil on his tongue; Phil’s hand spreading over Clint’s thigh, inching down his ass, pressing and prodding and circling and sliding in; the heat and suction of Phil’s mouth around him, swallowing him deep. They found a rhythm, hips and necks and hands working together; shivering, panting and moaning around each other whenever they could take a breath. Eventually Phil stuttered, his mouth and fingers becoming clumsy and rough as he came down Clint’s throat, and that set Clint off, shouting himself hoarse as he’d bucked into the welcoming wet of Phil’s mouth when his own orgasm washed over him like a tidal wave.

They’d rested like, curled together, touching and petting, and not speaking until they found themselves moving together again, racing into round two. Clint had pressed Phil to the bed, climbed on top of him, and let himself just take what he wanted. Judging by the way Phil had followed him into orgasm, Phil hadn’t minded a bit. And now they were down to just time for once more. 

Clint’s arm tightened around Phil’s chest, and he nosed into the sweat-waved hair at the base of Phil’s skull. As if clinging would help. As if holding on tighter could delay the inevitable. As if, should they stay there under the covers, wrapped nakedly together, they wouldn’t have to go back to their jobs and their real lives and their homes without each other.

“Morning, babe.” Phil’s voice was sleep-hoarse, soft, and intoxicating. He wriggled back, trying to press more tightly against Clint, dragging over Clint’s previously-softening morning wood. It stirred again to full-hardness, and Clint couldn’t help but flex forward against the plushness of Phil’s fuzzy, bare ass. 

“Morning, babe, yourself,” Clint muttered against the nape of Phil’s neck, letting his lips brush over the warm skin. “Sleep well?” And, since Phil had started it, Clint didn’t feel too guilty about continuing to lazily thrust with his hips. 

Phil chuckled, a dark, promising sort of sound.“The waking up is better.” 

Clint felt Phil shift oh-so-slightly, and Clint’s dick was suddenly lined up with Phil’s crack, being squeezed on two sides by Phil’s muscular glutes. 

“You?” Phil sounded entirely too pleased with himself, and Clint sucked in air for a smartass retort. It rushed back out of his lungs as Phil slid a hand onto Clint’s thigh and raked hard with his nails.

“Oh fuck please!” Clint had no idea what he was agreeing to. He was only dimly aware that Phil had asked a question, and he would have agreed to _anything_ to keep enjoying the friction against his dick. “Fuck, Phil. That’s…” He trailed off in some sort of incomprehensible groaning that made Phil laugh.

“Much as I’d love to lie here and let you rub off against me,” Phil’s hand inched higher to catch Clint’s hips, slowing them to a gentle stop, “I really _have_ to get up for just a minute. But hold that thought for me, yeah?”

Clint flopped to his back while Phil slid out of bed and pulled on Clint’s sweatpants from the night before. And _that_ was just unfair. Warm, still wearing Clint’s come from the night before, _and_ dressed in Clint’s clothing?

“You’re coming back soon, right?” Clint hated how whiny his voice came out; was he just going spend the rest of his life with his heart hanging out around Phil? _Or the rest of today, at least._ Clint sighed and tried not to let his eyes well up.

“Just have to piss, Clint.” Phil sounded amused, and a quick glance at his face showed that he looked it, too, lips curling up at the edges, eyes crinkled at the corners. “If you’re really good, I’ll bring coffee back with me, too.”

“I love you.” The words came out as more sigh than sound, but Clint still froze when he heard himself say them. He… Well, he clearly _meant_ it, but Clint wasn’t the kind to go around just saying it outright like that. 

“Love you too.” Phil murmured it from the doorway before ducking into the hall and shutting the door behind him with a soft click. 

Clint found himself grinning dopily at the ceiling, his moment of sadness burned away under the reassurance that Phil felt the same as Clint. Imagine, someone like Phil Coulson in love with Clint F. Barton. _Fuck_ , Clint was lucky.

_Can you just_ stop _, Hawkeye!_ He chided himself, trying to get a grip on his own sappiness. And then he shrugged and huffed a small laugh. 

“Unlikely,” he answered himself aloud. “Extremely unlikely that I can.”

____

 

Phil ducked into the kitchen on his way back to the bedroom to fill two mugs with coffee: black, just the way they both liked it. Or drank it. Whichever. Liking was less important than drinking, when it came to coffee. No one else was around, but a fresh pot of coffee waited on the warmer, and the usual array of a variety of pastries and bread for toasting were lined up on the counter. Phil quickly tossed a couple of things on a plate and poured two mugs, trying to escape before anyone else came in and saw him shirtless, slightly crusty, bearing several purpling lovebites. 

A drawn-out whistle from the far door into the room interrupted Phil’s planning on how to carry it all to the bedroom.

“You either had a really good night or a _really_ bad one, bro.” 

Phil turned slowly to find Basil staring at him, eyes twinkling, even though most of his expression was unreadable, hidden as it was behind that oversized, drooping walrus of a mustache. Basil’s gaze skimmed down Phil’s chest, eyeing the bruises and scratches, and he whistled again, the amusement in his eyes becoming more pronounced.

“It was… it was good.” Phil cleared his throat and resisted the urge to tug on his non-existant collar or shuffle his feet. “Really good.” He could feel the heat rising in his face.

“You takin’ him brea’fast, bro? That’s a good thing.” Basil shuffled into the kitchen and leaned down to pull open a cupboard. “You make your man feel special, and he’ll stay wit’ you, bro. That’s what my ma always told my sister, and Ma was a very wise woman. Lemme help you out. You need a tray. Boss likes their breakfast brought on a tray, so we have a lotta trays. That way you can take him something decent.”

“That’s… I can…” Phil set the plate and the spare coffee on the counter so he could take a deep gulp from the other mug. This conversation _clearly_ required a higher caffeine to blood ratio then he was currently sporting. 

“Here you go, Mister Coulson.” Basil set the tray on the counter and reached for a higher cabinet. Phil couldn’t see around the bulk of his back, but there was an awful lot of clinking going on for just coffee. “You need more coffee than that, too. In case that gets cold while he’s showin’ his appreciation. I learned that one from my mother, bro. She always took a thermos up to my dad on weekends when he slept in.”

“I… that’s…” And Phil needed to get his stammering under control. And his blushing. He was fairly certain he’d gone red from hairline to navel, and, of course, it was all on display. “Thanks, Basil. I appreciate the help. But…”

Basil turned, collected the plate and mug Phil had set down, and pressed the tray into Phil’s hands. In addition to the bit of breakfast Phil had collected, it held a thermos full of coffee, two small glasses of juice, a second plate loaded with pastries and jam, plus four fabric napkins and a small pile of gleaming flatware.

“Have a nice morning, bro.” Basil grinned broadly enough to curl the shrub above his upper lip. “I’ll tell the others you’ll be out later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Phil replied, returning the smile as he accepted the tray. “Yeah, thanks, bro.”

Basil beamed even more brightly. 

____

“What took you so long?” Clint forced his eyes open against the sweat that was running freely down his forehead, turning his head to look toward the door. 

Phil had frozen in the doorway, a tray loaded with what appeared to be breakfast in his hands, and a look of utter shock on his face. There was a dangerous rattle of dishes as Phil stepped into the room, deliberately kicking the door shut behind him and then turning to place the tray on the dresser. Clint waited until he knew Phil was looking at him again (as if Phil could have been looking anywhere _else_ , thank you very much) before he swayed his hips in the air, rubbing his face on the pillow under his head. 

“What are you doing?” Phil’s voice was breathless, barely loud enough for Clint to hear over his own desperate wheezing. 

As if it wasn’t obvious what Clint was doing. As if Phil didn’t know why Clint was on his knees, shoulder twisted, arm reaching back, one hand moving slowly as his fingers thrust in and out of himself. He hadn’t really needed any kind of prep, not with the last week between them, but he’d decided to rub on just a little lube, to make certain he was ready for Phil to slide on in, and things had kind of spiraled.

“You told me to hold this thought,” Clint let his eyes drop shut and his lips fall open in a moan as a particularly skillful twist of his own fingers felt _just right._ “But you took so long that it got… Ohhhh, god, yes. I forgot what the goal was and… If you want in on this action, you’d better get a rubber on and get in me now. Not gonna take a lot longer over here…”

Phil turned away, and, for one cold, terrifying moment, Clint thought he’d fucked up. But Phil simply reached out to lock the door before turning back to the bed, stripping off his-- Clint’s-- pants as he crossed the room.

“Let me see.” Phil crawled on the bed, voice still airless and tight. “Let me _see._ ”

Clint’s hand was gently pulled away from where it worked, and Phil’s fingers slid easily inside.

“Fuck, Clint!” That rasp was about to do Clint in, without any additional stimulation. And then Phil quirked his fingers, and Clint had to reach between his legs and _squeeze_ to keep from shivering his way through an orgasm _much_ too soon. 

“Watch it, babe!” he hissed, body trembling. It was suddenly much harder to hold himself up.

“You’re perfect. Just perfect.” Phil leaned his forehead against Clint’s hip, rubbing his lips over the swell of Clint’s ass before biting down _hard_. He growled around his mouthful, and Clint moved from trembling to full-on shaking. 

“Get in me, Phil.” Clint gave up all semblance of calm and moved straight into begging. “Please. Stop talking and fuck me. Baby, I need it. Need you. Gotta… Please, Phil. Please.”

Phil pulled away slowly, leaving Clint panting from the shock of sudden cold on the wetness of his new bite and from anticipation in equal measures. A condom packet crinkled, the rapidly-emptying lube bottle clicked open and then shut, and finally Clint was being filled, hard and fast and just the way he most liked it.

____

His grip on Clint’s hips was the only thing that kept Phil from floating away as he slid into Clint’s welcoming heat. His fingers squeezed more tightly, and Phil watched the skin around them go from white to red. He was leaving bruises, and the thought that Clint would be walking around, marked like Phil was, for the next week sent a surge of caveman hunger through him. Phil wanted to beat his chest and shout: _This one is mine, and only mine, and I am keeping him for-_ fucking _-ever!_

“So hot inside. Always so damned hot, Clint.” Phil leaned forward slowly, pushing Clint flat to the mattress as he eased himself down onto Clint’s broad back. “Want to touch you. Keep touching you. Want to stay here. You feel so good, so, so good around me. Can’t get enough of this. Of you. The way you feel...”

With Clint pinned flat to the bed, Phil undulated his hips, reaching up as he did to find Clint’s hands, linking their fingers together. Clint hissed and shouted as Phil set up a slow rhythm of grind, thrust, grind, thrust.

“Come home with me, babe,” Clint gasped, hips bucking to meet Phil’s next thrust. “Come back… stay with me ‘n Nat. Join our team. You could be… Please, will you come home with me?” He swore and arched at the next thrust. “That’s it, babe. Right there. Oh, fuck me right like that. That’s where I want you.”

Phil buried his face against Clint’s neck as he fucked into him over and over, not trying to get himself off yet, but not _really_ trying to make it last. He tried to stop thinking as he settled into the slide of his chest against Clint’s sweat-soaked back, the snap of his hips against the plush muscles of Clint’s ass, the grab and slide of Clint’s body around his cock. Clint’s request still hung in the air between them, and Phil bit his lip to keep from answering. To keep all of his hunger, his sadness, his desperation from bursting out of him in a single shout of “Yes!”

Phil wanted to roll Clint over and watch his face as they came. He wouldn’t, though. Couldn’t. In this position, Clint couldn’t tell that some of the wetness that dripped from Phil’s chin to Clint’s shoulders was not just the sweat rolling down his face.

He _couldn’t_. Couldn’t go with Clint, stay with Clint, join Clint. He had Jas and Mars, and they needed him. Fury relied on him. There was so much that Phil had worked for, and so much that he held dear. His sense of responsibility was too great, and there was too much waiting for him, too much he’d worked for. Had SHIELD meant anything less than literal world security, Phil would have taken Clint up on that offer, and damn the consequences. But there was too much waiting, too much he could no sooner walk away from than he could cut off his own right hand. 

Not even to keep this. 

Phil kissed Clint’s neck again, and the slight shift made Clint buck underneath him, clenching and shouting as he came. Phil tightened his grip on Clint’s hands and forgot his regrets and sadness as he swooped into his own orgasm, sighing blissfully as his hips stuttered and rocked slowly to a halt.

____

 

“I was beginning to wonder if you were ever coming out of there, or if the two of you had just… glued yourselves together.” Nat didn’t look around as Clint came into the room they’d been sharing-- sometimes, when she hadn’t been forced to share Clint with Coulson-- for the past week. It was after lunchtime, and this was the first time she’d seen signs of life. Granted, everyone had _heard_ signs of life. Or something like it.

Natasha shook off _that_ thought and went back to examining a pair of neckties.

Behind her, Clint huffed a from-the-toes kind of sigh which was followed by the thump and squeak of a body dropping onto a mattress.

“I wanted to, Nat.” Clint sounded small, heart-broken, lost. 

Nat gently laid both ties back on the top of the dresser and turned around to see Clint lying on his back, dressed in sleep pants and a t-shirt that she knew weren’t his, both hands over his face. 

“I wish I could just… attach myself to his side.” His voice was muffled by his palms, but he didn’t move them. “Or his back. His front. I don’t care. Handcuff us. _Anything_. Don’t want it to be over now.”

Nat crawled onto the bed beside him, lying down to rest her head on his chest. He was freshly showered, for which she was grateful, smelling of shampoo and a masculine sort of soap he’d been using for the past seven days. Same thing he’d come home smelling of a couple of times before, after being at that hotel with _Phillip_. Would probably be shopping for as soon as they returned home.

_Oh, my brother, don’t make it harder on yourself. Please!_

“I know you don’t, Clint.” She curled closer, slipping her arm around his waist and propping one leg on his thigh. “I wish you could keep him. He is… he is a better man than at first I envisioned you getting. He’s better than I thought him when we found out Phillip was lying to you. And he’s… he’s more than I thought of the legendary Agent Coulson, too. I wish you could keep him.”

She’d stayed awake all night, pondering that problem from every angle, but she still could not see a way that it could possibly work out for Clint to keep his Phil. They lived such _different_ lives. Coulson was in the kind of organization that demanded their agents’ all. SHIELD would probably happily take Clint, but Clint wouldn’t go without her. Nat shivered at that thought, at the idea of being _owned_ that way. Again. And Clint was too innocent to realize that was how those places operated. 

And she would welcome Coulson into their happy duo, grudgingly allowing it to become a trio. His skills could be useful to them, she knew. But they would then spend the rest of their lives (probably short, brutal lives, at that) dodging SHIELD. That sort of operation wasn’t known for letting people just walk free, certainly. She’d walked away from the Red Room years before, but they obviously hadn’t forgotten her. Her arm bore the knot of a still-healing break from her capture in Russia only a few months before.

Neither would they get their happy ending if they tried to stay together with the way things stood. Not when Nat and Clint so often found themselves operating outside of the law, and when Coulson _was_ the law, really, the _only_ law equipped to deal with their kind. Trying to maintain a relationship after this mission would only lead to heartache for both of them. Better to make a clean break now, suffer through the hurt, and move on with their lives. Better for Clint _and_ Coulson. 

“Come, brother-mine.” Nat patted his belly and rolled off the bed. “You need to get dressed, so I can check you over before I have to leave with Hill and Beck. You _do_ want to be the belle of the ball, don’t you?”

Clint grumbled his way to his feet, but he smiled at her, small and haunted, but real and sweet nonetheless. 

“What would I do without you, Nat?” He pulled her against his chest, nearly crushing her in a giant hug, and buried his face against her hair. His ribs expanded against her palms as he inhaled deeply, the breath seeming to go on forever before he finally huffed it out in a giant sigh. “Other than be very lonely, very sad, and entirely lost, of course.”

Nat chuckled because it was expected of her, and returned his hug.

“ _Dress_ yourself, Clint.” She pulled away to pat his cheek. “And I need to put on my terribly attractive tuxedo pants and vest. You will look like a young man with all his dreams coming true, and I will look… like a penguin.”

____

 

Maria ran over her order of operations for the night while she finished twisting up her hair, stabbing it with a dozen hairpins to keep it secured around a hairstick that had been sharpened to a wicked point-- stylish _and_ deadly. Two of her favorite styles in one.

First, check in with Malene and Natasha, and hope no one asked them how they’d gotten their serving jobs for the event. Second, excuse herself to _powder her nose_ and make a quick run to the sixteenth floor for a check on the closet she would be using to coordinate operations for the night. Third, get back down to the ballroom undetected to visually sort through the guest list, identifying who was there for the auction and who was there only for the introduction service reception.

_Easy peasy._

“You’re _certain_ everything is in place, and all we’ll have to do is turn it on?” Maria asked Malene, who was examining her lipstick in a mirror hanging in the vaulted entryway. “And that none of your people will be able to hack into the system?”

“Positive.” Malene wiped a smudge off her teeth before turning. “As we identify those who _are_ loyal, we can patch them in one by one. However…” She trailed off and sighed.

“So some of yours _will_ be there tonight?” Maria started fidgeting with her bowtie before giving up and going to stand beside Malene to watch herself tie it. “We’ll have some backup?” 

“Mmm, yes.” Malene caught Maria’s shoulder and turned her to reach for the tie. “Apparently quite a _large_ number of people from my office will be there. And I don’t know exactly who all we can trust just yet.”

“Oh, won’t _that_ be fun!” Natasha’s faux brightness interrupted them, and Malene grinned over her shoulder as she finished adjusting Maria’s tie.

“Thanks.” Maria patted the knot to check that it was even. “I’m geared up and ready to go. Let’s get this boat in the ocean.”

____

 

Jasper paced around the living room, trying not to fidget with his suit or tie. He couldn’t stop stroking his chin, now bare of whiskers, but _astonishingly_ smooth and soft after an application of some kind of magical aftershave that Zeg had sent via Basil that morning. Well, so it _probably_ wasn’t literally magic, but it smelled expensive. And his face had never been so nicely conditioned. Maybe it was some kind of weird super spymaster chemical secret, stolen from a supervillain organization that had created it to soften the chins of the criminally inclined. Jas grinned to himself and tugged at his cuffs. However Zeg had gotten it, it was doubtlessly beyond the budget of a simple field agent, so Jas was going to enjoy the hell out of it while it lasted.

He wondered what Waarzegster would be wearing that evening, and who would lead during the dancing portion of the evening if they were both wearing suits. He also pondered the phone call from Fury two days before. It had sounded to Jas like Fury was, er, _marking his territory._ That thought led to a whole series of other thoughts that Jas didn’t particularly want to study too closely. 

After that mission gone wrong in Brazil, there hadn’t been enough booze to fully erase the memories of listening to his boss-- his _boss_ \-- describe the strange and depraved things he’d gotten up to on his last weekend with his apparently long distance lover. And now Jasper’s traitorous brain was inserting Zeg’s face into the place of the nameless, faceless lover that he’d heard Fury _wax poetic_ over. Jasper _really_ didn’t want to think about what Zeg might do if someone nibbled on their hipbone. 

He went back to pacing. 

Phil arriving in the room in a flurry of nerves and expensive tailoring was a welcome distraction. Jas looked him over and sighed. Even with the excellent tailoring of Jasper’s own dark suit, he felt frumpy. Trust Coulson to show up on a SHIELD mission with a bespoke three-piece in a three-season cashmere blend. Asshole. Jasper tugged on his cuffs and smoothed his lapels. Again.

“Hey, Jas.” Phil gave him a half-smile, body already taking on the finely-honed tension that had kept them both alive on countless missions. _That_ was a relief. There’d been some quiet discussion between Jas and Maria about whether or not Phil was too compromised to continue. “You have a comm unit for Clint? Did we ever even figure out how to make one work with his ears?”

“Have something right here.” Jasper fished around in the inner pocket of his jacket until he felt the wide metal band. There was a SHIELD insignia etched on the inside of the ring, but the outside was simply hammered silver. “Romanov and I talked it over, but we couldn’t figure out a good way to make any of the standard comms work without getting SHIELD’s techs involved. As we don’t have any techs with us, this was our next best idea.” Jas handed the ring to Phil. “It’ll have to be set up after we get there, but once Mars gets to the tech she set up a couple days ago, it’ll broadcast to his hearing aids. He’ll have to talk into the ring, though, which I hope doesn’t cause too many problems.”

“I didn’t know we had any of these with us.” Phil slipped it into his jacket pocket, and Jasper blinked hard. For one moment he had a weird sensation of… something. Handing off the ring made him think of something, but it was just out of reach and fading quickly. 

 

“Don’t look at me.” Jasper shrugged off the sudden deja vu and turned his mind back to the mission. “Maria packed it. Don’t know why she thought we’d need it, but she’s really good at having that thing that you never thought you’d need.”

“It’s her superpower.” Phil smoothed his tie. “Remind me to thank her later.”

“You do that. She’s the one that decided we should give up the bed last night.” Jasper scowled at the bright, memory-of-being-well-fucked smile that floated across Phil’s face. “ _I_ got stuck on the couch.”

“Sorry about that, but--” Phil began, but he was interrupted by a reverent voice from the door to the hallway.

“Goddamn, Phil. You’re wearing that again.”

What happened after was almost more uncomfortable for Jasper than walking in on Phil and Barton in the throes of orgasm had been. Phil quite obviously forgot about Jasper, the comm unit in his pocket, and possibly the entire mission as he crossed the room to reach for Barton with visibly trembling hands.

“You look… amazing.” Phil’s voice was rough and ardent, fingertips barely daring to brush the raw silk of Barton’s silver suit. Throwing his hands in the air in exasperation, Jasper resigned himself to being the ugly duckling of the night.

“Says the gorgeous guy in the perfect suit.” Barton reached out with possessive hands, apparently less worried about being wrinkled or wrinkling than he was about not being attached to Phil’s mouth as much as humanly possible. Jasper turned away to stare out the window, trying to ignore the _smacking sounds_ from behind him. He was doing pretty well at it until the lip noises were joined by throaty little groans and bitten-off sounds of pleasure. 

He cleared his throat. Loudly. Twice. Phil laughed quietly, deep in his throat, and the sounds stopped, replaced with quiet panting that wasn’t much better. 

_This is the most fascinating window-through-which-I-can-see-nothing-but-a-bit-of-stone-wall I have ever seen._ Jas rolled his eyes and wished he had enough of his mother’s religion left to pray for strength.

“How did you come up with a suit like that while you were on the run.” Jasper knew that tone and could picture the amusement that curled Phil’s lips and softened his eyes; it was a look was usually reserved for small, furry animals and the sleeping babies of colleagues. He wasn’t sure what it said that Phil was aiming it at a full-grown person. A full-grown person he’d seen naked. A full-grown person he’d seen naked and that he was about to end things with.

_Shit. Poor Phil._ Jasper sighed and stared harder at the wall beyond the glass.

“Nat bought it for me when I signed up for the introduction service.” Barton’s voice was no less sappy, no less intimate than Phil’s. “She told me she’d make me look pretty and find me a rich tourist, if the fiance thing didn’t work out.” There was a heavy sigh, and then Barton’s voice became quieter, growing ragged around the edges. “Fuck, I’m so glad I got _you_.”

The smacking resumed, and Jasper rolled his eyes again. He was going to get a migraine if they kept that up. _There goes my sympathy._

Phil made a tiny sound, half pleasure, half sob. Barton shushed him with words spoken too low to understand from across the room, but Jasper could hear the gentleness in his tone, the intimacy. There was a soft sigh from one or both of them before the kissing sounds got under way again, but softer, more intimate.

_Poor Phil. Leaving that boy is going to break his damned heart._

Five minutes later, Jas had one hand clenched onto a curtain, trying to suck up his courage to edge past Clint and Phil where they stood by the door, trying not to _mind_ that it would disturb them. Interrupt them. Take away just a few of their last precious moments with each other.

He was also trying to figure out when he’d turned into a romantic jackass, because he’d _never_ thought of a few kisses as anything so important before. Well, not after the first couple in his early teen years. But it was _Phil_. His best friend. One of two people that _really knew_ Jasper. Phil, who had recently started looking a little more lost every time Maria or Jas announced a new date, but who never bitched about getting stood up so one of them could go have sex. The guy who had lived like a goddamned monk for… Jasper stopped to consider the last time he remembered Phil taking someone home.

_Wow._ So _past time for Phil to finally get his dick wet. Damn. Guy should get a medal for not cracking and killing a room full of probies!_

“Oh, aren’t you all a little extra _gorgeous_ this evening!” Zeg’s interruption was incredibly timely. Jasper heaved a sigh of relief at finally being drawn out of his nightmarish descent into preteen girlhood and turned around to see--

“Holy shit!” Jasper wasn’t aware that he’d spoken the words aloud until everyone turned to look at him.

“Mmm, thank you!” Zeg swished across the room, long, full, red skirt swishing about their ankles, held off the floor only by the insane height of a pair of very red, very shiny heels. Their shoulders and arms were bare, as was an astonishing quantity of chest and stomach, and most of their sides from the waist to the armpit. “Oh _look_ at you. Handsome little thing, aren’t you!”

There was no way to take offence at the term “little thing” with someone who looked like _that_ looming over him, gazing down with glowing eyes and looking as if they wanted to devour him. Jas couldn’t figure out where to put his eyes, afraid of causing offense by staring at all the exposed skin too long, and just plain afraid of meeting that expression. He had one momentary vision of what it would be like in a few short hours when he had to _dance with them_ , and he suddenly quit worrying about the location of his eyes in favor of panicking about where he would later put his hands. And his face.

“Oh, we’re so glad you shaved.” One of their slender, perfectly-manicured hands came up to cup Jas’s cheek, and he found his nose full of some light, alluring, _expensive-smelling_ perfume. “Your face is much too handsome to try hide it behind poorly-tamed scruff. Later, when you have time, you should grow a real beard, trimming it carefully and often on the way to full growth. It would accent that sexy little dimple of yours to perfection.” 

Jasper could feel himself coloring, and wished he still had the scruff to hide behind. But he was a goddamned Agent of SHIELD, and he could take control of this situation.

“That dress… You look… I can’t…” _Great_. Now he was stammering. There was a titter from across the room that could have been from either Phil or Barton, but Jas couldn’t drag his eyes away from Zeg’s gorgeously made-up face to see which it had been. Maybe he _couldn’t_ take charge of shit. “There’s not a lot… where…”

“Don’t worry, Agent Sitwell.” Zeg patted his cheek before sliding the pads of their fingers over the top of his freshly-shaved scalp. And Jasper should _not_ have thoughts like that about possibly-Fury’s lover. “You won’t have to protect us. We _are_ armed.”

“And lovely arms they are.” Jasper pinched the bridge of his nose. _I have_ got _to get my mouth back under my own control._ He swallowed hard. _Before I give myself away and say something Fury is going to kill me for._

____

 

Clint ignored Jasper’s annoyed glare and Waarzegster’s affectionate smile all the way to the hotel with the ballroom. He had this one car ride left to be Phil’s boyfriend, before they had to change gears and get to work, and he was going to make the most of it, nosy onlookers be damned. Once they arrived, Agent Coulson would help Hawkeye from the car, and they would tuck themselves away behind Anton and Phillip as they walked into the party. Until then, Clint was going to enjoy himself. He leaned into Phil, tucking in under his arm, curling into his side. His right hand was wedged awkwardly between Phil’s back and the seat of the car, but that left his left hand free to trace along Phil’s sexy-as-hell jawline and over the amused curve of his bottom lip. 

Phil shifted slightly to tuck his mouth close to Clint’s ear, away from Zeg and Jasper’s line of sight.

“You keep touching me like this, and I’m going to _start_ the night in bad shape.” His hand tightened on Clint’s thigh. “And I may have to seek my revenge.”

“Not in this suit, babe.” Clint leaned back far enough to let their foreheads rest together. “Wouldn’t wanna traumatize your teammate like that.”

Phil laughed that little chuckle that always went straight to Clint’s dick and shoved himself forward to kiss Clint’s mouth, fast, hot, and just a bit dirty.

“Agent Coulson, Mr. Barton,” Zeg said, all tickled and laughing, “while _we_ do not object to the show, and do in fact find watching the two of you fall in love absolutely breathtaking, you might wish to tone it down just a bit so that you both survive Agent Sitwell’s ire long enough to get into the ballroom. We believe the operation tonight will have need of both of you.”

“Jasper,” Phil didn’t look away from Clint’s eyes as he spoke, “if you don’t want to see me try to get my tongue all the way down his throat, then you probably want to look away. ETA five minutes, and I’m not going to waste them.”

Five minutes later, Basil warned that they were at the venue and Clint reluctantly broke away from Phil’s mouth to begin smoothing rumpled hair and crooked ties. Zeg applauded, making Phil blush and laugh. 

“Well, done, Agent! I wasn’t sure you could manage that long without coming up for air.” Zeg opened their tiny red handbag, pulling out a mirror to check their lipstick. “Most impressive.”

“Time to get to work, babe.” Phil ignored them, eyes burning into Clint. “You ready for this?”

“I’m always ready.” Clint leaned in to brush his lips across Phil’s one last time. “Let’s go be spies.” He closed his eyes a moment, concentrating on the persona he’d built for Anton, letting himself remember the desperation and desire to be kept that he’d felt before.

It was easier than he’d thought it would be, and he bit his lip and looked out the window, watching the line of well-dressed men and cheaply gowned or suited mail order brides present their invitations at the door.

Once they’d emerged from the long line of limos and cabs out front, Clint casually tucked his fingers into the crook of Phil’s arm, leaning into him and trying not to laugh aloud at the picture Jasper and Zeg made walking in front of them. Jasper was absolutely dwarfed by the giant, begowned, heeled form of sultry Zeg. On the other hand, Jasper’s face and hands were going to be incredibly close to rather a lot of extremely soft-looking skin over the course of the evening. Once upon a time, before finding Phil, Clint might have been a little jealous of Jas.

A quick glance at Phil found Phil glancing back, and Clint smiled at him, burning with the certainty that there was not one hotter person in the entire damned hotel that night. Not one. And this one was all Clint’s. Kind of. For a _little_ longer, anyway. Clint sighed, and then Phil was turning to him, reaching up to straighten Clint’s tie, drawing him down for a kiss, and Clint let go of his sudden wave of depression. 

They had a mission to complete, Clint’s and Nat’s names to clear, and a party to attend. Not necessarily in that order. It might be over _soon_ , but soon wasn’t _just yet_. If nothing else, Anton had his Phillip for a couple more hours.

“Heads’ up, Hawkeye.” Zeg leaned over Clint’s shoulder as if to say something to Phil. “Ian Quinn just slithered through the front door, all alone, no invitation in sight, just like the slimy little snake he is. Looks like the money has begun to arrive. Eyes open when we’re in there, and no sex on the dancefloor..”

Phil’s grinned, a tight, violent little smile that Clint hadn’t seen before, and Clint’s mouth went instantly dry. 

_So_ that’s _what Agent Coulson looks like._ Clint found himself grinning back, body starting to tighten up for action, hands itching for his bow. _I am entirely fucked._

___

 

Phil glanced around the room, not immediately recognizing anyone he could see nearby. He looped an arm around Clint’s waist, glaring down a few other partygoers who looked far too interested in the ass and shoulders under Clint’s suit, and then he had to laugh at himself. He sincerely hoped his alpha male response was a result of channelling Phillip Marcus and _not_ a case of suddenly turning into a caveman himself. 

But _God_ , Clint looked and smelled and felt good tonight. Phil couldn’t stop smoothing his hand down the back of Clint’s jacket, just to feel the curve where back turned into ass. Judging by Clint’s eyeroll before he slid easily into the wide-eyed Anton, Phil wasn’t fooling him at all. 

_So maybe I’m a little possessive,_ Phil thought wryly. _Not like I’m going to have time to be an asshole about it._

Phil’s in-ear comm buzzed an unsteady pulse, the signal that Zeg had activated their line while appearing to do no more than casually reach up to adjust their earring. 

“Portier is here. On the dancefloor. Four o’clock, thirty feet.” Zeg’s voice was lilting and light. “His black eyes have healed, but his nose will never be the same. Your reputation at fisticuffs is well-deserved, Mr. Marcus.” The humor changed quickly to annoyance that was evident even through the background noise of the milling crowd. “He should not be here. We were certain he had been sent home after being pulled from this operation.”

“Maybe he was put back on it.” Phil pulled Clint closer, leaning his forehead against Clint’s temple to make it appear he was whispering into Anton’s ear. “Since he _can_ recognize me. Or Mars.”

Zeg sniffed impatiently. “We spread the word that you had been called home. We _guaranteed_ that SHIELD was off the case.” There was a rumble of displeasure, followed by a murmur from Jasper that didn’t carry over Zeg’s in-ear. “Of course we were lying. They hadn’t _paid_ us.”

Phil huffed a laugh as Clint turned in to Phil to catch his lips in a kiss. Clint kept it short and showy, a pretty young man trying too hard to be alluring.

“Get me a drink,” Clint rumbled in Russian, and Phil felt his own smile go far too soft. “I can’t hear a damn thing in here, and I’m going to go into a classic boy-toy pout any minute now.”

“Your bow is waiting for you in the closet,” Phil told him gently, also in Russian. He reached up to run his thumb along Clint’s cheekbone, fingers of his other hand tensing against the back of Clint’s jacket, pressing lightly into the top curve of Clint’s glorious ass. “You look good enough to eat, and I’m required by the guidelines of this mission to put my hands all over you. No sulking tonight, love.”

Clint’s eyes sparkled, blatantly laughing, but the rest of his face and demeanor maintained his feigned annoyance. “So you think your touch can cure what ails me, that what you’re saying, _Phillip?_ ”

“Lemme touch you, and find out, _Anton_.” Phil reeled Clint closer, brushing the tips of their noses together, fully aware that he looked ridiculous. But, frankly, if Phillip couldn’t make out with his mail order groom at a reception to celebrate their “love,” where _could_ one make out in public?

The double beep of Maria’s comm unmuting came over the line. “You’re both disgusting, and I’m praying to _God_ it’s just your cover and you’re not really that gross when you’re alone. Also, you need to move toward Portier so that Natasha knows who to take out.”

“You’re going to have to wait on that drink,” Phil told Clint, brushing their lips together before pulling away. “We need to go be spotted by the bad guys so your sister can have a little fun.”

“Then come dance with me.” Clint’s voice was rough and dark and full of promise, and Phil thought back to their two previous times on a dance floor and shivered. “I’ll make _certain_ he doesn’t miss us.”

“Widow,” Phil said the name, trying not to move his lips, incapable of looking away from Clint’s blown pupils and wicked little smirk. He cleared his throat and managed to speak aloud the second try. “Widow, we’re moving to the dance floor to attract some attention.”

“Meet you there shortly.” Nat’s voice was positively cheerful, and Phil snorted at her obvious relief for the promise of _action_ instead of simply continuing to pass out drinks. “When he’s down, it’ll be time for Beck, Hill and I to move out into our positions for the auction.” 

By the time Clint and Phil were in position, the band was obligingly playing a love song, and Clint reached for the back of Phil’s neck with slow, hot hands. One intense stare and Clint licking his own lips was all the warning Phil got before he found himself with wrapped in Clint’s arms with a pair of teeth nibbling at the side of his neck. 

“Better get your hand on my ass before someone else does, baby,” Clint whispered in English against Phil’s earlobe. “Don’t want anyone thinking you’re not into it.”

“I’m not into it right now.” Phil _did_ obligingly slide his hand down Clint’s back, enjoying the smooth curve from shoulder to waist, out along the swell of gluteal perfection, and down to the crease where thigh met ass. Scooting the tail of Clint’s jacket out of the way, Phil inched his hand higher to squeeze one tantalizing globe. “But I am thinking about being in it. Being in you. Right here in fr--”

“What’s a girl gotta do to find a bad guy in a place like this?” Natasha’s tone was bored, but there was an edge to her voice. Phil twitched, feeling himself begin to blush. 

_Do not forget the active comms, Phil._

“Right, sorry!” Phil felt his ears heat as his brain was forcibly dragged back to the immediate task. Natasha _probably_ didn’t want to hear all of Phil’s filthy fantasies involving her brother/partner/best friend. And Phil sure as _hell_ didn’t want Maria and Jasper to hear them; he’d never hear the end of it. It’d ruin his badass, fully-in-control image.

_Because_ that _is still standing after the last month._ Phil pictured Jas saying “O-face” and shivered.

“Which one is he, Coulson?” Natasha’s red hair appeared at the corner of his vision just as her voice came back over the comms. “You’re being watched by a tall, sad-looking man with a pronounced limp; a tired, blonde girl; and a short, round man with a bad toupee who looks hangdog and alone.”

Phil turned his back on Nat to collect a second handful of Clint’s bottom; what no one saw wouldn’t come back to haunt him, right? Clint chuckled, chest shaking against Phil’s.

“Just like that, baby,” Clint crooned in Phil’s ear that did _not_ have the comm unit.

“Second one.” He felt his breath catch as Clint nuzzled in closer, licking his earlobe, and Phil hoped the gasp didn’t carry over the line. He had _almost_ forgotten how alluring Clint as Anton was, how sensual, how tempting.

“Really, Coulson? You got beaten down by that weasely little bastard?” Natasha sounded amused, and Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“I was doing fine against him _and_ his two exceptionally large goons,” he retorted, snuggling Clint deeper into his arms and resting his cheekbone on Clint’s temple. He could sugar-daddy with the best of them, thank you very much. “Unfortunately he had an entourage of _three_ , and the last one was carrying a metal pipe and standing behind me.”

“Excuses.” And that was a decidedly _teasing_ voice. From the Black Widow. 

Phil raised his eyebrows and pulled back to look at Clint, but Clint just gave him a small smile, having missed the entire conversation; between his ears in a crowded room with a band playing and his lack of a comm, he obviously couldn’t hear a damn thing that was going on. Phil hoped Mars and Malene would have time to figure out how to patch his hearing aids into the comm line quickly after they got away from the kitchen; he could really use some advice on coping with being teased by _The Black Widow_.

“Since he managed to knock you out once, and since your pretty Russian boy is here, instead of pining from a distance and waiting to patch you up,” Natasha drawled, “how about you create some kind of large distraction over that way so I can deal with him for you.”

“How large of a distraction are we talking about here?” Phil stuck his hand in his pocket and fiddled with the ring comm, a plan starting to take on a hazy outline. Clint’s hands inched from Phil’s chest around his ribs to rove restlessly over the back of his jacket, and Phil looped his arm over Clint’s shoulder to keep him close. “Do you mean a tray crash kind of short distraction? Or the kind that makes everyone in the room to watch us for several minutes?”

Natasha hummed thoughtfully. “The second one. And at least three minutes if you can manage. Give us time to get him all the way out of here before people start to wonder.”

“Three minutes.” Phil nodded thoughtfully. “Can do. Your time starts when my knee hits the platform.”

Phil slowly stepped out of Clint’s embrace, and then reached up to straighten the crookedness of Clint’s tie. Again. Apparently Clint was one of those who would not-- _could_ not-- make a necktie behave. It was entirely too endearing, and Phil found it irresistibly sexy. 

“What is wrong, Phillip?” Clint had tucked himself entirely into his Anton persona, eyes less calculating, although no less blue. There was a sweetness and innocence to him that made heat pool in Phil’s stomach and groin. He reminded himself that it was fake, but that somehow just made the fire burn a little brighter. Clint went further doe-eyed, and Phil brushed his thumb across the pouting curve of Clint’s bottom lip.

_Either I am a terrible person, and I’m going to Hell,_ Phil thought wryly, _or there was a_ whole world _of roleplay Clint and I should have been exploring this past week._

“Natalya needs a distraction while she removes some garbage from the ballroom floor.” He took Clint’s hand and began to lead him through the crowd to the steps leading to the platform where the band was playing. He stopped, one foot on the bottom step. “Just… just follow my lead, okay?”

Clint squinted at him, and the look was so entirely _him_ that Phil had to stop to kiss him one more time. He kept it brief, and then he forced his hand to let go of Clint’s fingers, and signaled for him to wait. Phil affixed a cocky smirk to his face and climbed to the stage where he caught the eye of the leader of the small jazz ensemble. 

Thankfully, once they found a mutual language (English, of all things!), it didn’t take any time or arguing to get the man to allow Phil access to the microphone. Phil turned away from his beaming face and reached a hand back for Clint, guiding him up the steps and into the spotlights. Clint gave him Anton’s soft little smile, but then one eyebrow lifted, and Phil wasn’t looking at a pretty little Russian boy anymore.

Suddenly, everything became muted, and it was the airport introduction all over again. The room went entirely soft focus, and all Phil could see was _Clint_. His changeable eyes shifted to bright aqua under the weird lighting of the ballroom, and his almost-smiling lips were still flushed pink from the pressure of Phil’s kisses from before, and he was so gorgeous that Phil stopped breathing. Phil was hit, entirely too hard, by what he was about to do.

_Why can’t this be_ real _?_

The first hot prickle of tears stung Phil’s eyes, and he blinked hard to keep them from developing any further. Phil caught Clint’s hand as he came up the steps, led him to the center of the stage, and then slowly, carefully lowered himself to one knee. Clint’s face blanched, but the voices around the room were dying out, and there was no time to stop and see if he was okay, if this was okay, if Phil was going too far. Natasha needed the distraction, so Phil fumbled the comm ring out of his pocket and reached for Clint’s left hand. 

It took him three tries to form words.

“Cl… B...My beloved Anton.” Phil cleared his throat and tried again in, this time remembering to use Russian. “ We have been together just one month, but it has been the best, most meaningful month of my life. When I came to Amsterdam, I had no idea I would find someone so… so entirely perfect, so compatible, so beautiful. You are kindness and passion, humor and intelligence. You are everything I have ever wished to find and was quite certain did not exist. From the first time I saw you, you have astonished me. Every day we have been together has been a joy.” 

Clint’s fingers were shaking in Phil’s grip, and Phil carefully squeezed, trying to offer steadiness. It likely would have been more effective if Phil himself weren’t trembling all over. 

“You have faced hardships and deprivations, and you have come through all of the bad times with your smile intact, and your heart still so big and so capable of love. You are far stronger than I could ever dream of being.” The first tear slipped free and trailed down Phil’s cheek, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. “You say you love me, and you know that I love you. And I can say, unreservedly, that I wish I could spend the rest of my life with you. There is… there is nothing I want more than you by my side, in my home, in my heart, for, well...” 

A smile had grown on Clint’s face, burning through the shock, and his eyes were luminous and swimming in tears. 

“C--” _No, Phil._ “Anton Vinogradov, will you marry me? Be my husband and stay with me forever?”

____

 

Nat shifted the small tray she carried to her left hand as she edged toward Portier. She offered glasses of champagne to several of the guests, smiling blandly as she did so, working her way slowly closer, waiting to see what Coulson had up his sleeve. She’d lined up directly behind her quarry when she saw Coulson drop to one knee. From where she stood, she had a perfect view of Clint’s face, and she froze as the blood drained out of it. 

_Oh shit, this could go very, very wrong._

It was a short speech, and Nat didn’t know Coulson well enough to read the line of his shoulders, the tension in his back, the movement of his head as he spoke, but she knew voices and how to read general body language, and she knew-- she _knew_ \-- that the look on Phil’s face matched his words. He was up there speaking as Phil-- not Agent Coulson, not Phillip Marcus. Just _Phil_. And he meant it. He was… he was _really_ proposing to Clint, right there in front of everyone.

“Oh my God, Phil.” The whispered words were punched out of her. “Oh my, _God_.” 

Portier’s head was tipped to the side, staring at the stage, at Coulson, with a bewildered look on his face, as if he couldn’t _quite_ believe that Agent Coulson was taking time out of a mission to get himself a husband. Or maybe reevaluating whether Coulson was even _on_ a mission in the first place. The growing grin on Clint’s face was selling the whole thing, leaving no one in the entire reception in doubt that Anton was madly in love with Phillip and _deliriously_ happy to be getting engaged.

_Distractions aren’t supposed to distract_ me _, Phil._

Nat boldly walked directly behind Portier, reaching out as if to place one hand between her burden and Portier’s horrid jacket, as if she was protecting the last drink she carried or his suit. She hit him with a jolt from her Widow’s Bites, managing to time his collapse and her loss of tray with the cheer that went up around them as Phil surged to his feet and flung himself mouth-first at Clint’s face. She caught Portier as he sagged and looked up just in time to see Clint pull back from the kiss to nod, eyes glowing with happiness.

The last of her resistance to Coulson crumbled. For making Clint look like that? For giving him that one moment of beautiful joy at being _wanted_? He would always be just _Phil_ after that. And, when she didn’t have an unconscious AIM agent on her hands-- well, on her _foot_ at the moment, technically... When she didn’t have an unconscious AIM operative to deal with, she would try one more time to figure out a way to help Clint keep that man. 

Even if it meant getting left behind herself.

____

 

Clint was convinced he’d stopped breathing by the time Phil finished his speech. There was no way he’d survived Phil Coulson spilling out all the words that Clint hadn’t _ever_ dared to imagine would be aimed at him by _anyone_ , let alone by someone that he loved so goddamned much. He tried to tell himself that it was all part of the roles they were playing; it was a distraction tactic, just part of the mission.

But Phil was crying, tears slowly gathering in the crinkles beside his eyes, trickling one by one down the freckled curve of his cheeks toward his soft, tender, _real_ smile. He was _glowing_ , eyes alight with affection, with love, and all of it focused entirely on Clint.

Clint could feel himself beaming back, a stupidly happy smile growing on his face, making his cheeks ache. His own eyes had gone a bit watery somewhere during the list of positive attributes Phil saw in Clint. Clint’s hand was trembling in Phil’s grasp, and Phil’s fingers squeezed harder around Clint’s; it might have helped, had Clint not been able to feel Phil shaking right back at him.

_They’re_ real _tears. Phil is crying honest-to-God happy tears while he’s on one knee in front of all these people. Proposing to… me._

Clint opened his mouth to answer, but couldn’t get any words out past the lump in his throat, couldn’t get enough air into his lungs to make a sound. Phil deserved some kind of answer other than Clint just standing there not breathing at him, so he tightened his hand around Phil’s, jerking him to his feet to get his mouth close enough to kiss. Phil’s hand twisted around Clint’s, and something cool and metal slid over Clint’s ring finger.

_Holy fuck, please let that be the comm and not a real damned engagement ring,_ Clint thought hysterically, _or I’m going to be absolutely fucking_ worthless _the rest of tonight._

Somewhere between the start of the lip contact and when they finally broke for air, reality nailed Clint in the solar plexus. His hands clenched tighter against Phil’s biceps, clinging much too hard, and Clint opened to the kiss, let it turn sloppy, let Phil overwhelm him. He hoped that no one watching could tell when the tears went from happy to heartbroken.

That was the only proposal Clint would ever get from Phil. And it had been _real_. Every _goddamned word_ was true. The truth of it was written in the wistfulness of Phil’s smile. It was there in the shiver of Phil’s body when he knelt, the tears that flooded his eyes and clung to his lashes, the tiny hitch in his breathing, the catch in his throat before he used Clint’s fake name. Phil meant every damned word of it, and Clint’s heart both swelled and collapsed with that knowledge.

He pulled back just enough to look into Phil’s eyes, forehead pressed together, and he nodded slowly. 

_If I could, I would do it, baby. Please forgive me that I can’t._

The sudden shout that swept the room and the applause that began hot on its heels startled them both out of their reverie, jolting a shaky laugh out of Clint in response to Phil’s wry grin. Phil reached up to brush a tear away from the corner of Clint’s eye, and Clint returned the favor before slipping his fingers along Phil’s temple to slide them into the softness of the Phil’s hair. He tugged gently, wrapped both arms around Phil’s neck, and blocked his face against Phil’s neck as he leaned in to whisper his answer.

“Fuck yes, I would.” He used English so Phil would be certain to catch what he said, so Phil would know what Clint _would_ have said, under different circumstances. “I love you, too, babe.”

Phil sighed, deep and shaky, before he gasped in air like a sob. His hands fumbled against Clint’s ribs as he slid his arms inside Clint’s jacket to pull him close and kiss him breathless.

____

 

“We need to make sure that door is secured so he can’t get out,” Maria snapped, one hand on her hip as she glared down at where Malene was securing Portier’s ankles. She bit savagely at the edge of her thumbnail on the other hand. The nail-biting was a habit she’d mostly trained herself out of, but it reappeared when she was worried, stressed, or pissed off; she was experiencing all three in a concentrated wave right at that moment. “Look, I can call in a SHIELD team, have them here in about two hours.”

“My department has this, Hill.” Malene glared at her across Portier’s now struggling body. Maria glared back, and Portier glared at both of them in turn. He’d been divested of anything that might help him get loose or call in help, and was now wiggling on the floor of a storage closet in his boxers, socks, and undershirt, tastefully accessorized with ziptie cuffs, a gag, and a murderous expression. “I’m aware that it looks as if I can’t control what is going on under me, but the situation with my assistant is on the way to being under control. I will know who he was reporting to before the night is over, and he _will_ be in custody.”

Nat gave them both a quelling look as she stripped off her cheap tuxedo vest and white shirt to reveal black tactical gear underneath. 

“Let’s get back to the task at hand.” She pulled her hair back, securing it with an elastic. “Portier is small potatoes, so I don’t give much of a damn if he does escape. My _partner_ is counting on us getting the electronics turned on so that he can hear what’s going on.”

“You’re right, Ms. Romanov.” Maria nodded her apologies. “Let’s get moving.” She peeled off the top layer of her own banquet server uniform, exposing her SHIELD-issue tac gear, black and navy and easy to move in. 

Ten minutes later, she was climbing the interior of an elevator shaft with the Black Widow in front of her and Malene close on her heels. She tried not to think of Jasper still in the ballroom, dancing with Zeg in that _dress_. Jas had a type, and Zeg, leggy, brunette, pale-skinned, and lethal, hit every bullet point on the list. Not that it mattered to her if they hooked up after the mission. Of course it didn’t. Jasper was a grown up and he could do anyone he wanted. Maria bit the inside of her cheek savagely to block the mental pictures _that_ created and focused on keeping up on the ladder. 

She also made a mental note to ask Romanov about her physical training routine, because _clearly_ SHIELD wasn’t doing enough in that department.

“This stop is yours, Agent Hill.” Natasha swung the beam of her flashlight across the gap to where another ladder led to a reasonably large ventilation shaft. “Director Beck, you’re one level up. I’ll see you both in that conference room when the auction gets under way.”

“Break a leg.” Maria called up to her. “But make certain it is someone else’s.”

Natasha’s laugh, rich and throaty and surprisingly _warm_ , followed Maria as she launched herself out into the dark, thrilling in the moment of weightlessness before her fingers closed around a rung on the far wall.

____

 

Phil slowly pulled out of the kiss after Cli-- _Anton’s_ acceptance of the proposal. The moment was almost perfect. Could have been perfect. If Clint’s nod hadn’t meant “if I could.” If the proposal hadn’t implied “if things were different.” If they weren’t in a room full of strangers, half of which were likely enemies trying to purchase stolen weapons plans in some kind of supervillain silent auction in another two hours.

That last thought snapped Phil back from the fantasy, and he stiffened his back, ready to slip back into his rich businessman persona. He and Clint were too exposed, standing above the crowd. 

“Babe, we gotta wrap this up and get off this platform.” He ran his tongue over Clint’s pulsepoint one more time, not stopping to examine the motivation behind the gesture, even though there was nothing left to sell. “Preferably before someone takes a potshot at us.”

Clint hummed an agreement and pulled back slowly, holding eye contact and smiling warm and bright and soft. But in a blink, his eyes went wicked. That momentary flash was all the warning Phil got before Clint lunged forward once more to press a hot, showy kiss to Phil’s mouth. There was another burst of laughter and applause, and Clint, circus showman to the core, pulled back to wave his newly-beringed hand over his head at the crowd. Phil caught Clint’s hand, kissed the back of it, and pressed his thumb against the ring, wishing just for a second that it was not just a goddamned comm unit.

“Yes, Phillip,” Clint said in Russian, turning his hand to link his fingers with Phil’s. “I would love having all of that.”

Phil felt his own smile go soft around the edges and his eyes begin to well up again. 

_This op is fucking with my head._ He took a deep breath to try to steady himself. _Time to get away from the party and go be real spies again._

Right. Because seeing Hawkeye in action was unlikely to affect Phil in _any sexual manner._

_Fuck my life._

“Let’s go find our room and…” Phil licked his lips lasciviously, obviously, “and talk about things, yeah?” He tugged gently at Clint’s hand, coaxing him toward the steps to the dancefloor. Clint’s eyes darkened, and he licked his own lips in unconscious imitation.

“Talk.” Clint repeated in Russian. “Yes. Let’s do that.”

“For our newly engaged couple!” The bandleader shouted, and Clint rolled his eyes, before grinning and shrugging.

Phil used their linked fingers to lead Clint down the steps. Once safely on the ground, pushing slowly into the crowd, Clint was the one to pull Phil close, swaying them both gently to the music. It was something slow and romantic, and Phil couldn’t _even_ register the tune over the buzzing in his ears. 

He’d just fake-proposed to Clint, using the real words he felt, and Clint had just fake-accepted the proposal using words that were ambiguous enough to _sound_ like yes while still acknowledging the impossibility and admitting his own desire to _genuinely_ accept. 

_That_ was a tangled mess. 

Phil led him around the floor, trying to edge them both toward the exit, in spite of the well-wishers pressing close every few moments to congratulate them. Finally Phil decided to hell with subtlety and possessively wrapped an arm around Clint’s waist. Clint raised an eyebrow, and Phil leaned over to say, just loudly enough to carry, “Can we go up to our room and _really_ celebrate now?”

And Clint-- _Bless his observant brilliance_ \-- smiled shyly, wrapping himself in Anton’s innocent charm, and nodded slowly, not saying a word, but somehow making himself look as vulnerable as if he were already naked and spread out for Phil’s to take right there..

With a lecherous grin at the crowd around them, Phil pulled Clint closer to his side and hustled him out into the hallway. 

____

 

“It is just us two now.” Zeg leaned forward to murmur directly into Jasper’s ear, and he shivered, goosebumps racing down his neck at the tickle of their breath. He licked his lips and nodded, reaching up to shove his glasses up his nose with one finger, even though they didn’t need the adjustment.

The two of them were seated at a table against the far wall from the stage. They had picked adjacent chairs, leaning toward one another to look as if they were canoodling in the corner while watching the entire room around each other’s shoulders. Zeg shifted slightly and rested their cheek against the top of Jas’s head. He tried to ignore how pleasant the tickle of their hair was against his cheek. 

_Focus, Sitwell,_ he told himself.

“The ladies all left with the removal of Portier,” Zeg said. Their scarlet fingernails clicked impatiently on the tabletop, and Jasper absently covered their hand with his own to still the nervous gesture. Zeg raised a startled eyebrow and chuckled, and Jasper felt himself blush and jerked his hand away. “Agent Coulson and Mr. Barton are making their way toward the hallway and the elevator.”

“We’ll need to keep the attention in the room long enough for them to make certain they’re alone when they get there.” Jasper shifted slightly, found his face far too close to the perfumed, pale expanse of Zeg’s throat. He quickly shifted again to look across the room to where Phil and Barton were pushing through the crowd, looking for all the world like they were in love, newly engaged, and headed to a room to do those things in love, newly engaged couples did. “Any ideas?” 

“We have a very _good_ idea, if you don’t mind being the patsy.” Zeg’s silky voice was far too amused, and Jasper refused to look at them. He wasn’t going to show that they could get a rise out of him.

_No_. Not _rise. Any word but that._

“Take us dancing, you lovely man.” Zeg caught Jasper’s chin and turned his face toward them. Their painted eyes were absolutely _sparkling_ with playfulness, and Jas had one moment of panic. 

_Focus, Sitwell!_

He was an Agent of SHIELD, goddamnit, and he was the best damned patsy in the organization. So it wasn’t a _cool_ distinction, like Phil’s reputation as a badass (if only the probies could see him in his boxers before he had coffee!) or Maria’s stone cold bitch (wait’ll the day someone found out she was a cuddly drunk), but it was the most _useful_ title Jasper could possibly have gained himself. And he wasn’t afraid to use it in the service of Director and country. Or words to that effect.

“That sounds good.” He rose and gallantly offered Zeg his hand to lead them onto the dance floor. Zeg gave him a suggestive little smile as Jasper turned toward them, and the wave of panic returned.

“We don’t bite, Jasper.” Zeg’s expression softened. “Here--”

They reached out to guide his free hand to their hip, palm on the heavy satin of their skirt, thumb barely brushing the edge of the exposed skin of their side. Their arm draped casually over his shoulder, and they wiggled closer. Jas tried not to notice how close his face was to their exposed breastbone. He slid his hand around their waist, hoping his palm wasn’t too sweaty against their bare back.

“You need to move us toward the center of the floor,” Zeg said softly, voice carrying no further than Jasper’s ear, which was quite a trick with their head nearly a foot above his. And just how high _were_ their heels, anyway? “Not directly in the center. That would be much too obvious. So… left. Our left. Bit more… And will you _lead_ instead of shoving us around the floor. You’re just--”

“Waarzegster,” Jas interrupted, smiling as sweetly as he knew how, “shut up and dance, darling.”

Zeg’s mouth snapped closed, and then they grinned, wicked and delighted. “Oh _good_! Nick warned us that you have a mouth on you. We were hoping it would come out and play eventually.”

“I’ll play all you want.” Jasper found himself grinning back in spite of the sudden rush of fear Fury’s name brought up. “But if you want me to lead, _you_ need to quit trying to direct things.”

_You will be an absolute gentleman to Waarzegster._ Nick had said. _You will do everything they ask of you. If you fail to be anything other than the perfect date, I will have you liaising with the US military._

Jasper shifted Zeg’s hand in his grip to better guide them across the floor. _I hope Talbot has a comfy mattress, because I am so going to end up sleeping by his feet._

“This should be about right.” Zeg inched closer, pushing in until Jasper’s arm was all the way around their waist, and his cheek was pressed between the front panels of the bodice on their gown. “Now, put your hand on our rear.”

Zeg’s firm grip on his shoulders kept Jasper from stepping away, but he managed to crane his neck up to look at their face. They released his right hand and stroked their fingers over his scalp and down the back of his neck.

“Both hands.” They smiled wolfishly. “And make certain you get a good grip.”

_Everything they ask of me, Fury?_ Jasper sucked in a deep breath and slipped his hands lower, collecting a double handful of firm, pert, perfect ass, wondering how much and from how many directions he was going to regret this.

____

 

Clint kept up the Anton act all the way down the hall and during the wait for the elevator. He hung on Phil’s side, stealing kisses, letting his hands skim over Phil’s chest and hip, palming his ass and half grinding on his leg.

“You’re killing me,” Phil whispered before biting down on Clint’s earlobe. Clint laughed, rough and wicked, dropping all pretense of innocence.

“Don’t want you dead, babe.” Clint shook his head free of Phil’s teeth and licked his way up Phil’s jaw. “Don’t we have an _engagement_ to discuss?”

Phil turned them and pinned Clint to the wall beside the elevator door. “Anyone watching us?”

“Three couples at the door to the ballroom.” Clint gripped Phil’s shoulders and peered through his eyelashes, trying to make himself appear lost in pleasure. Phil’s fingers gripped hard at Clint’s hips, and Clint found himself not having to fake it _quite_ as much. “Don’t recognize any of them, and they all seem to be laughing at us. I think they’re just jealous that I get to have my hands all over you.”

“They want a taste of your pretty-boy pout, more like.” Phil laughed against Clint’s throat. “‘M not going to share, though. Not tonight.”

The elevator doors slid open, and Phil crowded Clint through. Clint found himself smashed against the far wall, Phil biting at the side of his neck and riding his thigh. 

“Get me to the wall on my left,” he panted against Clint’s ear. Clint grabbed Phil’s hips and shoved, instantly chasing after to pin Phil in place and attack his mouth. He bit at Phil’s lips, shoving his hands inside Phil’s jacket and under the front of Phil’s vest, allowing adrenaline to give the kiss a frantic edge.

The doors dinged softly and slid closed, and Phil shoved Clint off of him, turning him again with a firm grip on his bicep to slam him into the corner beside the elevator controls. He fumbled for a button, not _noticeably_ looking to see which one he hit, and then he stretched his arms high, pinning Clint into the corner with his body. The spread of his hands put his palm directly over the lens of the security camera, blocking the view in the most natural way. 

_God,_ Phil was hot when he was being all competent and smooth. Clint ran his palms up Phil’s chest once more before he turned around to open the nearly hidden panel beside Phil’s left thumb. It should have been only a second to disable the surveillance, but Clint took his time, grinding his ass back against Phil’s crotch as he traced out wires.

“Hurry up, _Anton_ ,” Phil hissed in Clint’s ear, suddenly pushing closer to Clint’s back. Clint could feel him, hot and hard and probably tasty as hell. “Would really like to get up to that closet now.”

“Whatcha in such a hurry for? Huh, Phillip?” Oh, Clint could play this game. He could play it and play it to _win_. “Gonna be so boring, sitting in the dark while we wait for everyone to show up for the auction.”

“I have a few ideas to pass the time, babe.” Phil emphasized the sentence with his teeth against the back of Clint’s neck, and the light over the camera went dead as Clint’s hand spasmed, yanking out all the wires at once.  
____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Jasper's shocked; Jasper's _shocked_ ; Jasper's **_shocked_**
> 
> Yes, I know I'm a little late. In my defense, I thought this was a slightly-under ten thousand word chapter. And instead it's _well_ over. Plus it was fighting me, since I was trying to go the wrong way with it.
> 
> I hope it was worth the wait!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The auction begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (see end notes for links to more Waarzegster!)

“I am so sorry, Agent Sitwell.” Zeg’s whisper was all the warning Jasper had.

_THWACK!_

The slap sent Jasper’s glasses flying off of his face and arcing across the room. Jasper hoped, fervently, passionately, that Fury never found out how slow Jasper’s reactions were after that. Truthfully, his hands only lingered on the satin-covered plushness of Zeg’s rump for another second-- five at the outside-- before they dropped to his sides, and he found himself staring owlishly up at Zeg as they drew themself up to their full height, shouting curses and abuse in at least three languages at once.

“I’m _sorry_ , baby!” The whine that slid into Jasper’s voice as he sank into his role played up the sleezeball angle. He pasted on his most dude-bro leer and reached out to clutch at Zeg’s slender arms. “It’s just… you’re so _tall_ , baby! I didn’t know where my hands were sitting.”

Zeg shouted something angry and garbled that was either a slur on Jasper’s maternal line or an uncomplimentary remark upon the state of his manhood. They jerked one arm free and their tiny handbag flailed wildly through the air, forcing Jas to release his grip on Zeg’s off wrist in order to duck the blow. He knew how solid a hit from that damn thing would be, having had it dumped in his lap twice already that evening. In fact, he was fairly certain this thigh was already sporting a weirdly-shaped bruise from what was either the corner of a very large compact or the butt of a very small gun. Knowing Zeg, Jasper would have put decent money on the gun.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, baby!” Jasper groped at Zeg’s hip, as if to pull them back into his embrace. “No, really! Come _on_ , baby! I meant it as a compliment!”

Zeg shook their inky hair back from their face to peer imperiously down their elegant nose at him, angry color building high on their cheeks and their eyes flashing with fury. 

“Quite frankly, _boy_ ,” they spat at him in English, “we’re _thrilled_ that you’re leaving tomorrow!”

Zeg snapped a turn that made their miles of skirt swish around their legs like a bloody foam, and then they stormed through the crowd toward the door. Jasper simply gaped after them, not even having to feign his shock.

Someone fumbled Jasper’s glasses back into his hands, and he managed to wave something resembling a thanks at them before scurrying off through the milling currents of humanity that washed apart and rolled together in Zeg’s wake.

“Baby! Wait up! Come on! I said I was _sorry!_ ” Jasper bounced off of bodies and shuffled and pushed, keeping the pleading note in his voice, even as he wanted to stop and simply applaud the performance. Zeg was every inch the offended socialite. 

_My_ God _, they’re fucking magnificent! No wonder Fury was so..._ Jasper cut off that thought before he could disturb himself further and raised his voice as the crowd began to gibber excitedly, the shock of Zeg’s scene wearing off.

“Lemme make it up to you, baby!” His cheek burned from the strike, and he fought off a giggle, managing to turn it into a grimace as if of disgust. “We’ve been so _good_ together, though! I’m _sorry!_ ”

Jas didn’t catch up to Zeg until they were in the elevator, thumb firmly smashed against the door open button and their toes tapping impatiently. 

“Well done, Jasper.” Zeg smiled at him as the door slid closed. They pressed the button for their chosen floor and then chuckled, throaty and approving. “You do make one helluva patsy.”

____

Watching Phil unload, check, and reload the guns that Maria had stashed in the closet was hypnotic. Phil’s hands were gorgeous. Strong. Solid. Oddly elegant for the muscle and callous and scar on them. Fingers not _long_ but thick. Incredibly dexterous. Skilled. Clint shivered as he thought about all the things those fingers had done to him. How they felt tracing over his skin. The fullness and stretch when those fingers were inside, stroking and sliding and dragging Clint toward--

Shaking his head to clear _those_ images, Clint went back to checking his quiver, examining his arrows. He snorted to himself at the double entendre possibilities in the phrases _checking his quiver_ and _examining his arrow._ Nat would be proud of him for holding in all indecent comments.

“You okay over there, Barton?” Phil had clearly finished his gear check, judging by the three handguns lying neatly on the shelf in front of him, extra clips arranged just so for easy organization. His in-ear comm was lying at the end of the row, somehow looking very deliberately placed. “And are you about done?”

“What’s the hurry?” Clint tried for casual, quite certain he missed by a mile. That made once in his life he didn’t mind missing a target. He couldn’t regret the hunger that he heard in his own voice, not with the way Phil’s pupils widened, tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “We’ve got at least forty-five minutes before the auction crowd starts showing up. Have any better way to pass the time than playing with my arrows?”

Phil laughed, slow and suggestive. “That was the _worst_ innuendo. Ever.”

“You should have heard what went through my head when I was checking my quiver.” Clint grinned, sliding the last arrow back into place. “Now why don’t you get over here and keep me from getting bored while we wait for all the bad guys to show up?”

“I think I can help you with that problem.” Phil’s fingers reached for the knot on Clint’s tie, and Clint huffed a laugh as he experienced another definition of _quiver_.

____

“I have visuals from three of four cameras in the meeting room itself. There’s a… a ficus, I think-- some damned leafy thing, anyway-- in the way of the last camera.” Maria resisted the urge to shake the computer monitor, knowing it wouldn’t affect the camera or the tree-in-the-way. Her little hiding space in a systems-access shaft was quickly going from _cozy_ to _claustrophobically stuffy_ , making her neck prickle and her nerves short. “Con...firrrrrrrr...mmm-- Okay, yes. Confirming active cameras in all approaching hallways. And digital eyes in three of four elevators.”

“In the final box right now, trying to fix whatever the _hell_ it was that Barton did to the wires in this damned thing.” Malene’s voice was muffled; holding something in her mouth, then. “Looks like he just grabbed a handful and yanked them out.”

Romanov gave a dramatic sigh, and Maria wondered where she had holed up to observe. Theoretically, she was preparing to go into and clear out the security suite above the conference room fairly soon. It was a small labyrinth of tunnels that had access from one elevator shaft and from nearly-hidden panels in the ceiling of the conference room. Malene, after repairing the last camera, was going back to the ground floor to collect a few of the people from her department that she trusted. 

The cleanout would come later, and Maria didn’t envy the job at all.

“Knowing my intrepid partner,” Romanov said with that same affectionate exasperation that she always used when speaking of Barton, “that is _exactly_ what he did. He’s _good_ at delicacy, but he forgets that. Often.”

The ceiling in the minute closet left just enough room for Maria to stretch her back while sitting. But her hips were starting to cramp, so she shifted until she could lie down on the floor, chin on her folded hands. It was getting tedious, watching lots of things not happen on the monitor that flipped steadily through feeds. Romanov and Waarzegster had chosen locations well when they’d scattered around the building the week before. Still last people she had seen above the second floor had been Barton and Phil stumbling off of the elevator, Barton looking distinctly rumpled and Phil watching him with an intensity that he usually reserved for vintage Captain America memorabilia or classic Corvettes. 

An elevator door slid open to disgorge a laughing Jasper and a beaming Zeg on the floor below Maria’s. Maria did not flinch when Zeg reached over to smooth their fingertip along the side of Jas’s face, because that would have been entirely an overreaction to watching Jasper ineptly respond to flirting. Except that, well, Jasper tipped his face to give better access to his cheek, and Zeg smiled warmly before leaning over and pressing a kiss directly over Jasper’s _dimple_. And then Jasper laughed. Looked _adoringly_ up at Zeg and laughed, eyes dancing even on the black and white of the tiny camera hidden in the intercom speaker. 

Zeg glanced up at the camera on the way past and winked. And what was up with that? After that display, did Zeg honestly think that Maria would want anything to do with them? Would want to be _flirted with_ by them? And did Nick really trust them? _Really_? What kind of informant went around trying to seduce their contact, anyway? 

_Get your shit together, Maria,_ she told herself. _It’s just Phil and Barton rubbing off on you. Oh, bad phrasing._ She shivered. _It’s just been a few months since you got laid, and of course you’re going to start looking for a penis after watching Phil make moon eyes at a hot little boy for a couple of weeks._

She shook off her funk and ran through all the comm channels again, wondering how Jas did this-- sat out of the way and poked at computer keys for hours on end-- without going batshit crazy and running out to get shot at. Maria was quite certain she would lose it before the thing ever got started. However, since it _was_ usually her face out there being shot at, she was the one that would be recognized. So Jasper got to go out and play this time, and Maria would run the comms and cameras. Just because she usually _didn’t_ did not mean she _couldn’t_. Besides, she was clearly better in the field than Jasper, since _she_ didn’t get distracted by flirtatious giants.

Whatever. Tonight on control, she would show Jas and Phil how to do it _right_. 

____

Waarzegster hid a smile as Jasper nudged them out of the way while drawing his gun as the light turned green from the swipe of a keycard. He held up one hand to tell them to wait as he slipped into the hotel room they both would be waiting in while the rest of the bidders arrived. Zeg followed in directly on Jasper’s heels, not bothering to check the room at all. It was secure; Basil was already in there, having prepared and brought a light repast to keep them on their feet through the evening.

“Hullo, Boss.” Basil glanced up as he dabbed caviar onto the softly herbed crackers that he knew were Zeg’s favorites. The gun garnered a raised eyebrow, but he simply shook his head and returned to his food preparation. He had commandeered two serving carts that groaned under a variety of covered dishes and trays of niblets. “Agent Sitwell. The wine’s ready over there. You have a good night at the party?”

“Our _date_ only danced with us one time,” Zeg exaggerated the pout in their voice as they accepted a glass of wine from Jasper. “And then he got _handsy_.”

Jasper hummed thoughtfully and took a sip from his own glass. “You could say _my_ date gave very mixed signals.” He grinned, bright and impish, and Zeg was tempted to kiss again the palmprint they’d left on his cheek. “First I was invited-- no, _commanded_ to grope, and then I was slapped for groping.”

“How _terrible_!” Zeg gasped, widening their eyes into doe-like innocence and pressing one hand to their throat as if in horror. “How could anyone strike that precious face!” They reached out to pat Jasper’s cheek, still red and hot from where they had made contact.

Jasper coughed, nearly spitting a mouthful of wine back into his glass before he managed to swallow and speak.

“With apparent great enthusiasm,” he answered dryly. “And excellent aim.” His dimple suddenly flashed into life, and his eyes twinkled over the rim of his glass. “Still, it was a handful that was worth a little pain.” 

“Why _thank you_ , Agent Sitwell!” Zeg batted their lashes at him. “Compliments will get you _everywhere_.”

“No offense intended, Zeg,” Jasper accepted a paper cocktail napkin from Basil and dabbed at his chin. “But you look like anyone’s dream lover, think like a snake, and remind me of my boss. I’m way too afraid of you to try to get anywhere.”

Zeg laughed, reaching out to squeeze Jasper shoulders lightly. “You’re not wrong, love.” They smoothed their fingertips over his freshly shaved scalp. “You’re not wrong at all. Basil, feed the man something good for his bravery and endurance in the face of adversity.”

Jasper muttered something under his breath that Zeg pretended not to hear, but they stared out the window for a few long moments until they felt the pleased blush fade off of their cheeks.

They were fairly certain that what Jas had quipped to himself was “ _Ass-versity_.”

And, well, _ass_ was one of their best features. Either the ass in their attitude or their shapely bottom. 

____

Phil had reluctantly dragged his attention away from Clint’s tongue to turn off the light switch a few minutes into their desperate make-out session in the closet. He knew that if anyone got curious about a light under the door, they’d get close enough to hear the few errant sounds that slipped out as he and Clint licked, bit, and sucked at one another. As the closet theoretically contained nothing more than extra paper products for the rooms, and as Phil was fairly certain that even _actual_ paying guests weren’t supposed to fuck in storage spaces, it was probably best that they didn’t get caught. Phil did regret losing the view of Clint’s magnificent _everything_ , however.

Now Phil was shirtless in the dark, fairly certain that Clint had carefully hung his shirt over the jacket that Phil had hung up earlier in preparation to put on his shoulder holster. Clint’s shirt was unbuttoned, draping back from his shoulders to bare his peerless chest, and his belt was unfastened but not removed. Phil wasn’t sure when he’d gotten distracted from his attempt to get Clint naked, but it had probably happened sometime around the point Clint had attached his mouth to Phil’s collarbone. 

Clint was still there-- on Phil’s collarbone-- sucking what was _clearly_ going to be an astonishingly large hickey that would probably last for days. Which, well, _good_. Phil wanted more marks that would stick around. He wanted all he could get. Though, to be completely honest, Phil wouldn’t have minded going without the bruise that seemed to be blooming where the edge of a shelf was biting into his back just below his shoulderblade. The next shelf down was unable to do any damage, as Clint’s hand was shoved down the back of Phil’s trousers, holding the flesh of Phil’s ass away from the sharp edge. Clint squeezed hard with that hand, and Phil dragged him up to get back at his mouth.

Their kisses turned biting, desperate, wet and hot, and Phil’s fingers dug into Clint’s back, trying to hold on longer. He was determined to memorize every sensation: Clint’s mouth against his own, Clint’s muscles under his hands, Clint’s panting breath against his lips, and the desperate whines that slipped out when Phil licked across Clint’s tongue. 

Clint broke away first, mouthing along Phil’s jaw as he sucked in giant gasps of air, ribs expanding and contracting hugely under Phil’s hands.

“Oh fuck, babe.” Phil could barely understand his own words, his voice had gone so breathy. “Clint? Babe? Clint!”

“Yeah, Phil?” Clint slurred the words as he sucked Phil’s earlobe into his mouth and did something wicked to it with his tongue and teeth. Phil forgot what he was trying to say for a moment as he clutched at Clint’s biceps to keep himself upright.

Clint’s other hand wiggled inside Phil’s pants to join the first, both of them kneading at Phil’s buttocks, hot and hard and touching just the way Phil loved best, and Phil remembered what he was wanting to ask. He forced his hands to release their grip on Clint’s amazing arms, letting them slip down to Clint’s flanks, feeling the muscle ripple under his palms as Clint shifted to deepen the kiss. Phil braced his feet and shoved hard before surging forward to follow and pin the bulk of Clint’s superheated body against the shelves that lined the opposite wall. His palms splayed across the ridges of Clint’s ribs, pressing in to feel the bones under the defined pad of muscle that covered them. 

Holding Clint in place with enough force to leave the impression of his own fingertips in small, hungry smudges along Clint’s sides, Phil scraped his teeth across one of Clint’s sensitive nipples. Clint whined, loud and low before throwing an arm across his face to muffle the sound. He was so hot, so unbearably _hot_ against Phil’s stomach. Clint writhed and the press of his rigid dick branded itself onto Phil’s hip. Phil moaned softly at the pressure, rubbing himself against it as he reached around Clint’s back, hands crumpling the cotton of Clint’s unbuttoned shirt to pull them more tightly together. 

“Gonna suck you, okay?” Phil wasn’t even trying to come across as smooth, but he still winced at his own choice of words. But this was _Clint_ , and Phil didn’t have to impress him. He’d never understand how he’d gotten this man’s attention, his love, but he was grateful. He let his mouth get on with saying whatever it felt like. “Want to taste. Fuck my mouth on it…”

If Clint’s answering snarl was anything to go by, he didn’t much care that Phil sounded like a second rate porno. 

“Come on, babe,” Clint growled, hands fumbling to release the button and zipper on his trousers. “Do it. Fucking _do_ it! Oh please, Phil.”

Phil dropped to his knees with more eagerness than grace, fingers trembling as they carefully folded the silk front of Clint’s pants out of the way so he could nuzzle inside. He kissed the soft skin above wiry blond curls, closing his eyes and breathing in, wondering if anything could ever be as intoxicating as the scent of Clint’s sweat-kissed skin. Phil reached out with his tongue, tracing a line from Clint’s hips, down to where he could open his lips, take Clint inside and suck once, hard.

Above him, Clint grunted and whispered a frantic curse, hips making a tiny, mostly-aborted thrust. One of his hands clenched on Phil’s bare shoulder, palm hot and slick. The other brushed softly over Phil’s hair, and he tipped his head to lean into the gentle embrace, sighing contentedly as he relaxed his throat to manage another two inches. He pulled back slowly, slid down slower still, and repeated the gesture. Clint cried out, fingers of one hand clenching in Phil’s hair while the others flew up to stuff in his own mouth to muffle his sounds. Phil lost himself in a slow rhythm that reduced Clint to shaking and twitching, mindless whimpers falling from his mouth.

Clint’s knees trembled, balls tightening against Phil’s gently stroking fingers, and Phil pulled off much too fast, wiping the back of his wrist across his mouth.

“No. Not… not this way. Clint, I want.” Phil reached up to grip Clint’s hipbones and haul himself to his feet. He leaned into Clint’s chest to hiss directly into Clint’s ear. “I want!”

“What you want, babe?” Clint’s face pressed tightly against the connection between Phil’s neck and his shoulder. His arms curled possessively around Phil’s shoulders, tightening as if he didn’t know how to let go. “How do you want me? Anything, Phil. Anything you--”

“In me, Clint,” Phil gasped the words out, small and pleading. “Want you to fuck me. Please. Just once before it’s... Just… I really want you to fuck me.”

____

Natasha propped her boots up on the wall of the duct she was waiting in, folding her hands behind her head and relaxing her spine flat to the bottom to ease the tension in her lower back. There was not _quite_ an hour until the auction was supposed to start, and she planned to take full advantage of her last bit of downtime to, once and for all, solve the problem of Clint and his new… fascination. 

Not that Clint was _only_ fascinated, that much was clear. Clint fell often, and he fell hard, but there was something different this time. This wasn’t a shag on the fly with a promise of vodka and sad songs on the jukebox for two weeks after it ended. Only twice before had she ever known of Clint wanting to _keep_ someone. 

The first time happened several years before Nat met him. He’d been working with an only _slightly_ shady security firm when he fell for the young woman he’d been sent to protect. He’d married her after they’d known each other just three short weeks. He still spoke of her with warmth and regret and fondness. And, while it had ended badly with both of them needing to get out and get away, he would still sometimes get nostalgic and sad. The story might have had a happier ending had Clint not been just seventeen and using an illegal ID to tie the knot and later divorce.

 _Trust Clint to use a fake name to marry somebody._ Nat snorted fondly.

The second someone Clint had wanted to keep had been herself. The romance between the two of them burned itself out, a magnesium blaze that was over as with a flash of light and heat. There hadn’t even been ashes of it around them when they’d turned to one another as friends and business partners, _needing_ to be together while not wanting-- at _all_ \-- to be _together_. But kept her he had, sacrificing over and over to keep her safe and cared for. 

Now, here he was again, wanting someone. To keep someone. But this time seemed so much _more_ , somehow. Phil combined the attraction and admiration and passion Clint had felt for his wife with the camaraderie and steady affection he felt for Natasha. And that was… unusual. Clint fell in love fast, but he never seemed to _like_ the people he fell for. He clearly liked Phil. And Nat would be lying if she tried to say that she didn’t like him, too. Phil was… he was a good man. A gentle soul with an aura of danger. Loyal and steadfast, long fuse with a large explosion at the end. Good at reading and seeing and analyzing on the fly. He reminded her…

 _Oh_.

Phil reminded her of Clint. Of who Clint could have been, had he not been hindered by his _unusual_ upbringing. Had he not had a brother that had been too young for Clint to follow. Had Clint experienced any kind of stability in his upbringing. Phil was… Phil was the nearly-normal version of Clint. In every way, just about… No. Not _just about_.

They were clearly perfect together. Natasha sighed as she finally admitted it to herself. They were content together in a way she’d never seen two people be. It was enough to make her wonder if maybe at least _some_ of the songs and books and movies might have gotten a little bit of something right.

Losing Phil was going to devastate Clint. It would leave a deeper hurt than he could get over with a single night of too much to drink and _that song_ on repeat. 

_Oh my god._ Nat lowered her feet and sat up very straight. How many times _would_ she have to hear that song, Clint drunkenly stumbling through the lyrics. 

_Seven hours and shixteen daysh… Took yer love away…_

Trying and failing to sing along with that girl with the large, lovely eyes and the unfortunate hairstyle. He played it at home. He fed every jukebox in every diner where they usually ate all the quarters he could collect to play it. And then there were the bars. 

_Oh God, the bars._

There were _so many_ bar fights in her future after Clint parted ways with his Agent. 

She shivered, remembering the last time Clint had been dumped. She’d been forced to endure the slurred lyrics and Clint’s drunken, sidetracked rambling as he tried to adjust the song to how many _actual_ days and hours it’d been since the breakup. _Days_ of Sinead O’Connor and Clint failing to shower and only sporadically brushing his teeth. 

Thankfully, they never made it the original lyrics’ seven hours and sixteen days. On day four, Natasha managed successfully to distract Clint from his mope by finding him someone to stick full of arrows. A very bad someone. Removing human traffickers was usually a surefire way to cheer Clint right up, no matter the cause of his depression. 

Somehow, though, she didn’t think that would work this time around. She was also _fairly_ certain that there was no way to fit the full length of Clint’s mourning into the song, should this truly be the end. She wondered if there was enough vodka in the entire state of New York to keep her from killing Clint while he wailed, “Nuthin’ compares to Phillllll.”

_No. Certainly not._

And what of Coulson? According to Maria, he didn’t do this kind of thing. He didn’t fall in love. Or even just casually sleep around. She wondered if his method of getting over a lost lover was as irritating as Clint’s. Did he drag his friends along with him? Would Jasper and Maria be forced to sit through hours (and hours and _hours_ ) of the butchering of a genuinely terrible song? What would Agent Coulson’s choice be? 

Maybe… maybe it was time to bring in some assistance for getting the two away from one another. Or maybe it was time to get some help in keeping the two of them together. If the choice was Phil Coulson having a lover who was only _occasionally_ an outlaw or three solid weeks of something like Patsy Cline, certainly Agent Hill would be on board with finding a solution. And certainly the two of them together could find an opening, just one small opening that would give Clint and Phil a fighting chance to make it work.

She flipped her comm to a private line and waited for Maria to answer the beep.

“There is a problem with my partner and yours,” she said as soon as Maria responded. “And we need to solve it before we both lose both of them.”

____

“What problem is that?” Maria asked carefully, wondering if there was something going on that Phil had failed to tell her about. 

_Has Natasha gotten wind of them planning to run away together? Was the engagement not faked?_ Her throat seized, and she forced herself to take a deep breath. _No. Phil would_ never _do that to SHIELD._

“They’re not going to handle losing one another very well.” Natasha sighed heavily. “I know it will all but destroy Clint, and I don’t believe your Phil will be in any better condition after they part.”

“I don’t know that there’s anything _we_ can do about that,” Maria said carefully. She flipped through the entire series of camera feeds, contemplating. On the other end of the open line, she could hear Natasha breathing calmly, steadily, waiting for Maria to process and answer. “I know they’re both compromised, but they’ve both said they can complete the mission. Beyond that, I’m not certain their, er, _relations_ are any of my business.” 

She left the _or yours_ unspoken, but she thought it as hard as she could. Then again, given the weirdly codependent nature of Barton and Romanov’s… whatever it was, Natasha probably _did_ think it was her business.

“Compromised is a normal state of being for Barton.” Natasha sounded both amused and frustrated. “I’m not worried about the mission. As soon as we find a target for him, he’ll poke it full of arrows, lethal or not according to whatever call you make at the time, and that will be that.” She sighed. “He’s just so very taken with your Phil. Has been since he first laid eyes on him. That’s… I wish I could say it was unlike Clint, but _that_ is just like him. Going from fascination to _genuinely_ in love is something new. Usually he burns it out in forty-eight hours. A week at most.”

Swallowing down a wave of nausea, Maria paused the line and requested verbal confirmation from the rest of the team to give her a moment to think. 

_So falling in love is normal for Barton, but staying in love isn’t._ Maria considered the variables that might have kept things going an entire month-- if that was long for Barton-- and decided it must be the adrenaline of the mission, possibly compounded with the break they’d had to take from one another, followed by the easy access to hot sex. At least, if things ended because of the end of the mission, Phil would never have to know he was just one of a string of lovers. He’d get out without his heart getting broken of doing something reckless. That was… that would be better, surely. 

Malene, Zeg, and Jasper chimed in immediately with their comm checks, Jasper sounding as if his mouth was full. Typical. Trust Jas to find the food during the downtime. She contemplated requesting that he bring her something to eat, knowing that whatever was in Jas’s mouth was something good. Instead she fished a protein bar out of her pocket and opened the package, savagely chomping off a bite. 

In the background of someone’s line, she could hear Basil attempting to give the affirmative code, then Zeg murmured something soothing in Dutch, there was a pop, and Basil was loud and clear, answering “Yeah, bro. Sister bro. I’m here, too.”

A few moments longer, and Maria gave up on hearing from Clint and Phil. For the moment. They weren’t due up yet, and she had a horrible feeling she knew what they were doing. Well, not _exactly_. Maria pulled her mind away from pondering possibilities; she didn’t need to be having those thoughts about Phil, no matter how attractive his boyfriend’s arms were.

She took another deep breath and flipped back to the private line with Natasha.

“Look, Phil was quite resolute about ending their… _thing_ when this op ended.” Maria thought of Phil’s sad eyes and the thickness in his voice as he gritted out that he would get over Clint. And the way he’d brightened at her suggestion of a night of drinking and a rebound lay. He _would_ be fine; Phil was always fine, and there was no way he’d forgive himself if he walked away from SHIELD for a guy who broke his heart in the end. She’d watched him sacrifice too much to get where he was to watch him lose it like that. “They’re both adults, and I, for one, will respect their decisions. I’m sure if it was _that_ much to them, they’d have found a way to work it out. Phil’s willingness to walk away suggests that it’s _not_ so very important.”

“M--”

“Now I really need to get back to calling this mission.” Maria knew it was curt and a bit rude, but she flipped away from the private channel and immediately tried to page Phil and Barton again.

“Coulson, report. Hawkeye, report.” Still no response.

 _Goddamnit._ She pulled up another private line, suddenly not caring if Phil _had_ asked her to leave him alone once they got to that closet until time for the mission to go live. Phil had been given enough play time, and now he needed to get back to work.

“Jasper,” she said, when the line clicked live. “Our dueling Casanovas are failing to respond. Will you go hit the closet and check their tech? And tell Phil to get his mind back on the goddamn mission, already.”

____

Phil was burning. He was damned sure he was actually, realistically in danger of immolation from spontaneous combustion. His arms shook where they braced against a shelf, and sweat was pouring down his face, dripping from his lip and chin. His back was wet and slick, and Clint’s hand on his shoulder was digging in with nails to keep from slipping away. Phil shivered as his legs struggled to hold him up. Breathing became more difficult with every passing second. 

Clint hadn’t gotten past the tip of one finger, and already Phil had lost track of time. That finger slipped in further, and a spasm shivered all the way through Phil making his hands rattle the shelf that he clung to. A thin moan from Clint meant that he’d noticed-- how could he not, given where his fingers were-- and that he _liked_ what he was doing to Phil. Phil canted his hips back further, trying to get more of Clint inside himself, and Clint moaned again.

“So good, baby. You feel so good this way.” Clint’s hoarse praise against the back of Phil’s neck just as his finger found Phil’s prostate was nearly enough to end the entire experience there, and Phil reached down to grip himself hard to keep from going off like a goddamned firework. “Jesus, you’re tight. How long’s it been, babe? How long since someone opened you up and slid inside? How long since anyone’s gotten to take you apart like this?” Clint backed his finger out slowly and reached around Phil’s ribs for the lube bottle. 

Phil took advantage of the momentary break from overwhelming pleasure to stretch back against Clint’s chest, letting his head drop back onto Clint’s broad shoulder. “Too long. ‘S been too long. Couldn’t find… Wasn’t anyone I trusted this much. Not in so, so long.”

“Fuck, Phil.” Clint caught Phil’s face in the palm of his free hand and drew him back for a hard kiss in spite of the awkward angle. “Fuck. Don’t say shit like that to me right now. Just… Fuck.” He sucked in a shaking breath and reached to give Phil’s neglected erection one good stroke.

The sensation of cold lube and hot, callused fingers made Phil’s breath stutter, and he tossed his head restlessly against Clint’s shoulder.

“How do you like it, babe?” Clint kissed the side of Phil’s neck and gently pushed him forward again, fingers trailing down Phil’s lower spine. “What feels best?”

“You,” Phil rasped. “You touching me. In me.”

“Mmm.” Clint hummed, pressing in firmly, quickly with two fingers, making Phil hiss and writhe. “Like that, babe? Or you want it gentler?”

“Want your dick in my ass,” Phil answered, managing to keep his tone dry. “And hard. Go harder.”

Clint’s wide spread of chest suddenly pressed hard against the back of Phil’s shoulders, free arm looping around Phil’s waist. “Like this?” he growled in Phil’s ear, and then his probing turned rougher, harder, more insistent. Phil moaned at the burn and thrust backward, blowing out hard.

“Yes! Oh fuck, yes!” Phil’s legs started to give out, and Clint’s grip shifted to give him more support, arm tightening around Phil’s middle. “Fuck, babe. Fuck! Like that. More. Give me.. I need…”

“Wanted to take my time, Phil.” Clint was panting into the side of Phil’s neck, breathing as ragged as Phil’s. “Wanted to make it good. Take you apart slow. Don’t want you hurt…”

“Want it to, love.” Phil arched his back, shoving his hips harder back against Clint’s fingers. “Want to feel it. I _need_ to feel it after.” He didn’t say after _what_ ; there was no need to go over it again.

Clint let out a choked sob and tore his hand away, fumbling for the condom Phil had dropped on the shelf earlier. “Can’t wait. Sorry… I need… Please.”

“Hurry up hurry up!” Phil flapped an impatient hand over his shoulder at Clint, feeling relief sweep over him when he heard Clint’s belt buckle clink as Clint shuffled his clothing out of the way and then he heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper. Moments later, he felt bare skin pressing against his ass where Clint held him close before leaning back and lining up. A hot, intense stretch later and Clint was buried deep, one hand stretched low across the front of Phil’s throat, not squeezing, just holding. Clint’s other hand eased its painful grip on Phil’s hip and slipped around to stroke Phil’s stomach softly.

They leaned together-- for support, for comfort, just to be close-- both shivering, until Phil’s breathing evened out.

“You gonna move?” Phil clenched, something like triumph burning through his chest as Clint gasped and shook against him. “Gonna fuck me, babe?”

“Not gonna last long when I do.” Clint’s thumb made a soft sweep through the curls on Phil’s chest. “God this… You… Feels so damned good.”

Phil slowly released his grip on the shelf, letting his weight sag back against Clint’s chest. He reached up and back to tangle his fingers in the soft, overgrown spikes of Clint’s hair with one hand while the other gripped bruises into Clint’s thigh in a desperate attempt to keep himself grounded in the moment, to not fly away on the fantasy that this was something he could have forever.

“I don’t want this to end.” Phil pulled Clint’s head forward by the hair, nuzzling into his temple. He growled the words against Clint’s skin to burn them deep. “I don’t want it to _end_ , babe! I meant it, you know. That I’d marry you. Tomorrow. Right _now_! I would. _God_ , I would. But…”

Clint mouthed at the curve of Phil’s ear, his breath and tongue and lips fogging out what was left of Phil’s mind.

“I know. You have SHIELD.” Clint shifted his attentions to Phil’s bicep, licking and nibbling at a sensitive place he’d discovered weeks before. His hips moved minutely, nothing but a restless little twitch, but it was enough to make Phil buck and hiss as pleasure licked up his spine in an electrical crackle. Phil sucked in another breath and tried to focus on what he was saying, on refuting Clint’s assertion that SHIELD was the problem. 

_Because what’s SHIELD and an empty bed compared to this?_

“I’d…” Phil started to answer, but lost the sentence when Clint backed out on a long, slow stroke before instantly snapping his hips forward again in a thrust that punched the breath out of Phil’s lungs. 

“Right there. Jesus, Clint! Just like that.” 

Clint repeated the motion, and Phil lost all coherent thought, words running away to be replaced with breathless cries that he tried to silence before they floated further than Clint’s ear against Phil’s cheek.

____

“Dammit, Mars.” Jasper looked down at the mini quiche in his hand-- _handmade_ mini quiche; was there _anything_ Basil couldn’t make?-- and sighed. “I’m eating. I’m eating an _amazing_ snack. And if I have to see those two connected at the tonsils, I am going to lose every last bite of food I have swallowed already. You _know_ why they don’t have their comms in, right?”

“I’m sure I can guess.” Maria sounded petulant, and Jasper mentally kicked himself for thinking that it sounded cute. Maria didn’t _do_ cute. Except for that sulky face she sometimes wore. Or when she’d had a bit too much to drink and ended up getting cuddly with Phil or himself. 

_Gotta stop the wine now,_ Jasper thought, regretfully setting down his glass. _And maybe have just a few bites more._ He cast around for another argument to get out of having to risk another eyeful of Phil groping his boytoy.

“I bet Phil’s got an alarm set on his phone.” 

Phil _always_ set an alarm during pre-mission downtime. It was a thing with him; he said it let him relax without worrying about checking the clock. Sometimes he napped, sometimes he read, sometimes he just stared at the wall and wandered away into his own head. Jasper was _also_ willing to bet that Phil was not napping, reading, _or_ staring at the wall this time.

“I would bet you first round when we get home that he forgot this time,” Maria countered. “You _know_ how weird he’s been since meeting Barton.”

_Goddamnit. Fair point._

“Fine.” Jasper sighed and shoved another mini quiche in his mouth, chewing until he could speak around the bite. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll go check on our newly sexually intrepid partner. Make sure he’s got his timer going.”

“Just get them detached from one other’s mouths and get them back online, okay?” The comm clicked as Maria disconnected the private line.

“Fiiiine. Don’t say goodbye.” Jasper regretfully nudged his wine glass back toward Basil and reached for a bottle of water. He also grabbed a couple more nibbles from the buffet-like spread, to keep the water company.

Seven minutes later, Jasper set off down the hall with a handful of something crunchy and salty and tangy and all around perfect. By the end of the hall, he was wishing he’d grabbed the whole bowl. He reached in his pocket to fiddle with a loose thread, wondering how long he could make the stroll to the storage closet take.

As soon as Jasper was out of sight, Basil removed his in-ear comm and slipped down the hall in the opposite direction, heading toward the parking garage to check on Boss’s car. _Just in case_ Boss wasn’t as clever as they thought they were and needed to get away in a hurry. Not that Basil thought Boss couldn’t handle things, of course. Boss could do anything. But it wouldn’t hurt to make sure that Boss could go someplace else in a hurry… _Just in case_.

____

It was well before suppertime, far too early to send those in the control room for the Amsterdam operation on a break. Nick Fury did it anyway, explaining that he didn’t want anyone distracted by a growling stomach in the middle of… whatever came next. He chased out the two thrifty techs who had brought leftovers with every intention of eating at their workstations. He then strictly forbade anyone to come back for twenty-five minutes, hoping they would stay away until the mission went live. 

The security cameras in the hotel, plus the smaller, clearer feeds from the cameras Zeg and The Black Widow had installed, flickered through on an endless, seemingly senseless rotation. Nick didn’t bother trying to find the pattern that he was certain Hill had set up; woman could be trusted to do her damn job and not need anyone looking over her shoulder. Scrolling through the feeds seemed pointless, as Nick couldn’t find the one thing he was searching for, the one thing he was _sure_ was in there somewhere. 

And then his pocket rang. 

It was not the SHIELD issue smartphone. Or the second work phone that was mostly for politicians and military top brass who only wanted to whine about the budget or make goo-goo eyes at him, as if having SHIELD back someone’s campaign or war-based powerplay was something any _sane_ person would do. Nick mostly ignored that phone. And it was not the one he called his “personal” phone, which was still connected to SHIELD’s servers and network-- for his own protection.

The phone that rang was a small, old, red flip phone, something so painfully out of date that SHIELD probably couldn’t have tracked it if they tried. The ringtone was a soft, slightly tinny version of “Someone to Love,” and hearing it sing out never failed to put a smile on Nick’s face. 

“Hello, Waarzegster. Please tell me you have a camera near you.”

“Hullo, Nicholas.” Zeg’s throaty purr answered, and Nick pressed the phone closer to his face, as if he could catch the gust of their breath against his ear or his cheek. “Feed thirty-seven. We have it blocked from your delightful Agent Hill, although we place no guarantees on how long that will last. She’s good. You’ve done well.”

“And _you_ look amazing.” Nick watched as all of the screens came to life with a single image, showing the room where Zeg lounged against the head of a wide bed. The contrast between their porcelain-fair skin and the ink of their hair was emphasized by the black and white image, and the full skirt of their dress was a dark splash against the glowing whiteness of the bedding they were draped across. “Is Agent Sitwell proving to be an adequate escort? Behaving himself? Catering to your every whim?”

Zeg laughed, dark and rich, sending a shiver down Nick’s spine. Twenty-eight years he’d been listening to that sound-- on the phone or in person, sometimes brushing across his neck in the dark-- and it still had the power to weaken his knees. His hand clenched harder around the phone.

“Your Jasper is a most _delightful_ date. We should like to borrow him more often when--” Zeg paused almost imperceptibly before finishing their thought. “--after this is over.”

Nick watched their face as they rolled and shuffled, coming to rest stretched on their stomach, grinning up at the camera, toes of their high heeled shoes resting on the headboard where their head had been moments before. The angle of the camera emphasized the stretch of their neck as they grinned up at the lens, but it was still high enough to show the silky expanse of their shoulders and half of their _very bare_ back. Nick reached out to tap a button, capturing the image in a still and emailing it to his secure email address. That was one to print for his office.

But another picture on the wall wasn’t what he wanted.

“So you still haven’t decided?” Nick’s voice came out gruff, and he cleared his throat. “Time is getting a little short here, Z. Haven’t I waited--”

“Nick.” Zeg’s soft contralto chided him gently, speeches and reproach in a single syllable. Their eyes were wide and warm as they looked up at the camera, pleading with him not to push it, not right then.

“I’m sorry.” He verbally backed away, recognizing the start of the same argument they’d been repeating-- occasionally adding to, and once nearly resolving-- for nearly three decades. “You have other things to think about tonight.” 

“Thank you,” Zeg answered stiffly, and then they laughed again, rueful and warm, their tight shoulders relaxing. Nick reached out to brush his fingertip against the monitor, stroking over the line of their neck. “Soon, Nicholas. Right now, we two have only moments alone, and we have information for you.”

“Hit me.” Nick settled back in the chair, cradling the phone against his shoulder and folding his hands over his gut as he lifted his boots to the edge of the desk. “How’s the team?”

“This team is incredible, Nick.” Zeg folded their arms on the mattress and dropped their chin to their wrists, tipping their head to hold the phone against their shoulder. Nick drank in the stretch of their spine, the dip down to their hips at the top of the skirt on their gown.“If your Coulson and our Hawkeye can stop with the overblown tragedy when they’re alone, they will be absolutely _perfect_ together, both at work and personally.”

“I told him not to fuck his cover.” Nick sighed and ran one hand up his face and over his scalp; it would need shaving soon. “I _ordered_ him not to fuck his cover. Not that I knew his cover was a world-class mercenary and assassin at the time. Still, that was a complication I was _not_ expecting out of Coulson." 

“When one’s heart gets involved, professionalism doesn’t stand a chance.” Zeg propped their cheek on one fist, laughing into the camera. “And you should know that Phillip’s heart became _very_ involved.”

“If he’d kept it in his pants, kept himself distant…” Nick trailed off and shook his head. “I _told_ him not to do it. Do Barton. Should have told him I was the voice of experience.”

“Did it stop you, Nicholas, when you were told not to get involved with your informant, back when we two were young?” He’d known Zeg long enough and well enough to read what they meant in the way they blinked, the way they didn’t, in every breath and the shift of an eyebrow. The hurt that flashed through their narrowed lips, the tightening of muscle along every line of their body nailed him in the gut. “Do you wish you had listened? Has it been so terrible? Have _I_ been so terrible?”

“You know the answer,” he answered slowly, voice suddenly hoarse with the dryness of his throat. “It’s a lot more complicated than that, and you _know_ it.”

“You wish to keep your Phillip from struggling with a life like yours?” Zeg pushed themself up, standing to pace in front of the camera. They looked like a caged panther, restless and impatient, beautiful and deadly. “Simple. Then let us both arrange it that they do not _have_ to become us two.”

“No, Z,” Nick interrupted, tired of watching Zeg’s face darken and twist. Mostly upset with himself for causing the hurt. “That’s their problem. The only thing _you_ need to worry about is retrieving those plans, arresting the person who stole them, and getting my team, their new friends, and _you_ out of Amsterdam safely.”

“Oh please, Nick!” Zeg huffed a dramatic laugh, visibly forcing their shoulders down, their face to smooth out into their usual pleasant blankness as they stopped in front of the camera. “ _That’s_ easy and dull. Let us play with dreams of true love until we have to go up.”

____

Clint found himself trying desperately to believe that this wasn’t all some kind of fevered dream: Phil’s head lying back against his shoulder; his palm wrapped lightly across Phil’s throat; Phil’s back sliding wetly against his chest; Phil’s hands reaching back to clutch at his hips; Phil’s tiny whimpers of pleasure and shock; Phil’s body, tight and slick, dragging around him with every withdraw and thrust. Clint’s breath was ragged, scraping his throat raw with each desperate pant. It was all too much, too good, and _completely_ unbelievable. 

Phil’s skin was so wet and slick with sweat that Clint’s fingertips slid against him. To get a better grip, Clint looped his arm across Phil’s chest, letting his hand trail through the curls of hair before he tightened, holding Phil tightly against him. Had he been asked before his “match” had gotten off the plane, Clint would have said this was the one thing he _didn’t_ expect to get. And then Phillip Marcus was standing there in front of him, control and competence in a nice suit, and Clint forgot to even wonder about topping; all he wanted to was to be pinned down and _fucked_ by that man.

It wasn’t until Phil had asked-- no, _begged_ \-- for Clint to fuck him that Clint even thought about it again. One more piece of perfection in the puzzle that was Phil. One more thing that Clint burned to think they wouldn’t ever have time to explore more thoroughly. This memory, though-- Clint’s heart and spankbank were both entirely full. 

_And, according to the things Phil was saying a few minutes ago,_ Clint thought whimsically, grinning against Phil’s neck, _so’s Phil’s ass!_

Words were hard to come by now, both of them mostly reduced to sighs and growls, hoarse pants and desperate whimpers. Phil, who had begged, _pleaded_ with Clint all through being stripped out of his suit and gently opened with lube-slicked fingers (and Clint refused to dwell on _why_ Phil had thought to tuck the tiny bottle in his pocket before leaving Zeg’s house), seemed to be running out of even those small, hungry noises. He hung limp in Clint’s embrace, held up mostly by the arm across the sweat-matted fur of his chest. Clint shifted to get deeper, and Phil exhaled hard, knees buckling a bit before he managed to push himself back upright.

“Still okay, babe?” Clint panted against Phil’s ear. “Still with me?”

“So good, ‘s so good.” The words slurred as Phil tried tense his stomach enough to flex into Clint’s thrusts. “That’s where… right like that.”

Clint slid his hand slowly down from Phil’s throat, pausing to tease at a nipple before reaching lower.

“No, Clint.” Phil writhed hard against his chest. “Don’t… Just keep it… My neck.” He sighed softly, contentedly as Clint moved his hand to its previous position, letting his thumb stroke the side of Phil’s Adam’s apple. Phil seemed to rally under the touch, turning his face back toward Clint’s, words coming clearer. “Don’t need your hand. Keep going. I’ll come like this. Just fuck it out of me.”

“Holy fuck, you are perfect,” Clint gasped against Phil’s neck, hips stuttering as his brain went offline. “How the _fuck_ did I find you, you perfect fucking _miracle_?” 

Clint’s mouth kept running after that, spewing pornographic nonsense, begging for things he couldn’t have. He would have been embarrassed, but he was so far past shame, past anything but desperation. Besides, it was not like Phil didn’t know how Clint felt. Not like Clint hadn’t been pretty damned clear about it, when he’d begged Phil to join Nat and himself. And Clint would _never_ feel ashamed of this, of wanting Phil. Wanting forever. 

Really, it was a relief to discover he wasn’t so broken that he couldn’t fall in love when love was standing right in front of him. Clint’s hands pulled harder, tighter, gripping Phil close and holding on for all he could get. Phil made a noise halfway between a choke and a growl as Clint’s fingertips dug in, and a spasm rippled through his body, vibrating Clint along with him. 

“So close,” Phil whispered, shoulders shifting restlessly against Clint’s chest. “So good. Just… Nnnngh!” Another shiver washed over him, and Clint grabbed his own self-control with both hands-- figuratively-speaking-- trying to keep from coming before Phil. 

Just a few more thrusts would--

A brilliant light flashed into the darkened closet. 

Clint’s pupils contracted, and the surge of adrenaline pushed him away from the edge of orgasm. His head snapped up as the door swung wide, and he squinted to see the figure standing in the glaring light from the hallway. He tried to calculate if his bow or Phil’s gun would be easier to reach from this position, but it didn’t seem Phil was going to be shooting at anyone.

(Later, Clint would wonder if Phil had known who was at the door of if he just didn’t give a damn. Either way, Phil didn’t so much as lift his head in the sudden brightness.)

“Shut the fucking door, Sitwell! Shut the--” Clint choked as he sucked in air, feeling Phil begin to tighten around him, little fluttering spasms that indicated orgasm was iminent. In an instant, Clint was back to where he’d been a few seconds before. “Shut it now before you-- oh fuck, Phil! Hold on, babe-- before you regret it!”

The light vanished as quickly as it’d come, this time punctuated with a _CLACK_ as the door swung shut. The instant the dark returned, Phil let out a hard exhale that nearly sounded like a groan, tightening to vice-like intensity before relaxing and immediately tightening again. And again. The next spasm took Clint from _nearly_ to _there_.

He sobbed as he slammed in hard one last time, grinding deep as he came, biting at Phil’s shoulder to muffle his “I love you.”

If that was their last time together, if it was all they got--

Well, Clint was pretty _damned_ sure Phil had saved the best for last.

____

Jasper was going to quit picking locks, that’s what. So what if the lock was on a cell door with one of his best friends on the other side; didn’t mean Jasper was going to touch the damn thing. Didn’t matter if the locked door was between him and a bomb with a timer running out. No more unlocking _anything_ for which he didn’t have a key, because, whatever was _supposed_ to be on the other side of a locked door, he knew he would _always_ find Phil and Clint, and they would be--

“Are you two ever _not_ connected at the _asshole!_ ” Jasper kicked the door. “I did not _ever_ need to see that much of Phillip Coulson, let alone in that condition!”

Even if that did explain why Phil hadn’t answered Jasper’s knock. The first, second, _or_ fifth time.

 _That condition_ was Phil, naked excepting only his pants bunched about his ankles, stretched out and on display with his arm flung back over the top of Clint’s shoulder. All spread out like that, there was no overlooking his _enormous_ , empurpled erection and the way it thrust toward the door. Worst of all was the look of… of _transcendent bliss_ on his face, eyes heavy-lidded and mouth slack with pleasure as his hips bounced forward in time with Clint’s strokes. 

There wasn’t enough alcohol in the greater New York City metropolitan area to peel that sight off the back of Jasper’s eyelids. 

He leaned his fingertips against the door as if to hold it shut, to keep that picture from invading the hall. Shivering slightly, he forced himself to breathe shallowly, letting the scent of sex dissipate before he inhaled any more, because _God_ it had been thick in there, with the arousal and sweat and the--

 _Shut the_ fuck _up, Jasper!_

He closed his eyes and dropped his head forward to thump roughly against the door, trying to dislodge the image from his brain. A moment later, he heard the sharp beep-- swiftly muted-- of Phil’s phone alarm. It was followed by a shuddery sort of grunt, and Jasper thumped his fist against the doorframe. He leaned closer to the jamb and enunciated carefully and clearly to make his words carry into the closet. 

“I so fucking hate you both.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to lean his back against the wall beside the door. “I think I’m ready to get back home and have Phil the Frustrated Monk back. At least _he_ doesn’t go around with his… with his _O Face_ hanging out.”

He fidgeted with the end of his tie for the next five minutes, mostly wanting to leave them to do… whatever they were doing now, but knowing he’d need to actually check their tech before leaving or face Maria’s wrath. He’d _told_ Maria that Phil had set the damned alarm. There was no way that Phil, no matter how personally tangled up he was over some pretty boy, would let anything interfere with the completion of his duty. He might be infatuated with Barton, but he was _married_ to his job. That wasn’t going to change in just a month. Eh, at least this meant a free drink when they all got home.

The door swung open.

“I really, _really_ hate you, Coulson.” Jasper sighed at Phil’s bright-eyed grin and wolfish laugh. 

The man didn’t even have the decency to look rumpled beyond the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. His suit was immaculate except for the slight suggestion of displacement around his ribs on one side and his hip on the other. Trust Agent Coulson to be able to get _hella_ laid and stroll out five minutes later, armed to the teeth, and completely unaffected. _Showoff_.

“You’re just jealous, Sitwell. You _wish_ you could get dick like this.” Barton’s grin was manic, and he practically _vibrated_ with energy. His jacket and tie had been removed and left behind for the moment, sleeves rolled to the elbows to display the hugely corded muscles of his forearms. He bounced lightly on his toes, one hand smoothing the strap of his quiver over his broad chest and the other lightly clutching a complicated-looking compound bow. “You ever had the come fucked out of you by--”

“Barton, stop.” Phil gave Clint a dark look that dripped sex and filthy promises. “Don’t traumatize him further. We need him to be able to stand upright and pay attention.” He raised one sardonic eyebrow at Jasper. “And I would prefer you not kill my boyfriend. Or me. So no friendly fire accidents, alright, Sitwell?” 

Barton threw back his head to laugh, rich and full and far too easy for the task ahead of them. Phil’s attention swung around at the sound, mouth curling up at Barton’s happiness. They stood there grinning at each other until Jasper got uncomfortable.

“No promises, Coulson,” Jasper snapped, mostly to stop the eye-fucking that was happening in front of him. _And would they_ ever _get tired of that intense staring thing?_ “Mars is pissed that you’re not on comms. Check in before I get my ass chewed further.” 

Phil reached up to touch his right ear. “Coulson. Affirmative, comm active.”

The wide, silver band that Phil had slid onto Barton’s finger during that proposal-cum-distraction glinted in the overhead light as Barton held his hand to his face to speak near the ring.

“Hawkeye. Affirmative, comm active. If there’s a problem and I have to start shooting, I won’t be able to pass on information. Weapon like mine requires both hands.” 

Jasper snorted and glared over at Barton who simply gave him a cocky smirk and wink. And, well, okay. So maybe Jasper _could_ see what Phil saw in the guy. A little bit. Dude was an asshole full of bad innuendo, which clearly made him perfect for Phil. But...

_Damn, Phil, you left it late enough, and went for as inappropriate as you could make it, didn’t you. Masochist, much?_

“You gonna be okay, Phil?” Jasper tried to keep himself from asking, but the words pushed out without his permission.

“‘Course, Jas.” Phil smiled at Clint, his Agent Coulson face firmly in place, and the twist of his lips tight and dangerous. “We’ve got stolen plans to recover and very bad people to arrest.”

Maria’s voice came over the open comm line. “Beginning camera cycling now. A walking pace will keep you clear in the halls. Collect Waarzegster and head to the elevators. Mission is active.”

____

Zeg’s categorizing of Phil’s relationship with Barton was… _startling_ , to say the least.

“You think it’s true love?” Nick sat up straight, eyebrows climbing his forehead. He couldn’t keep the hint of a scoff from his tone. “But it’s been, what? Four weeks since they met.”

“And when did you know you were in love with us, Nicholas?” Zeg smiled at the camera, pushing their hair back with one hand to let both eyes twinkle directly at Nick. “Or trust that I also am in love with you?”

Fair point, but the words and the smile and the conviction still nailed him in the chest with the force of a bullet. Nick took a deep breath, trying to find a way to answer, but Zeg, as ever, read his hesitation, claimed victory, and moved onto the next part of their conversation.

“Fine. We will deal with them ourself.” Zeg smirked and resumed their seat on the edge of the bed, crossing their long legs in such a way that the absurdly high slit fell open to expose one perfectly-toned thigh. Nick wondered if it was as smooth as it looked on the screen, and then roughly jerked his mind back to the mission.

“As for tonight, we rather think that something on those plans was stolen or copied from some type of Stark technology, which would explain why Virginia Potts is here with that fellow that is Stark’s sometimes bodyguard.” Zeg’s fingertip tapped against their painted bottom lip, and Nick reached out to brush his thumb over the screen. “The Black Widow will be contacting Ms. Potts at some point this evening to reassure her that we will be collecting their stolen goods and handing them over to SHIELD. That should keep her from getting in the middle of this mess. The fewer civilians we have to work around, the better.”

“And you’re not a civilian?” Nick teased gently.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nicholas.” Zeg rolled their eyes and huffed an exasperated laugh. “We also suspect that they aren’t just selling _plans_ tonight. We believe that is where Cross came in, fabricating something that was stolen both from Stark and from Brown and Richolt. So there is a possibility we may have a physical product for your team to take home with them.”

“Well, that’d keep them off of a commercial flight, for damn sure.” Nick mumbled, grabbing a nearby notepad to jot down the information that Zeg was spilling. He’d get it down and process it later.

“Also, when your Dutch counterparts come in to arrest everyone, please don’t let them keep us, should we be picked up.” Zeg took a deep breath and stared into the camera. “We _will_ win that auction, Nick. We have the money to back our bids, and we have a lot of other leverage for bartering.” 

Nick took a breath to interrupt them. 

“Don’t _worry_ about us.” Zeg stood up and moved closer to the camera. “This what we do. You just make certain your team keeps anyone else from dying. And please _do_ get me out of here when this is over.”

Before Nick could answer, Zeg went on. “Your Jasper is back with the wayward lovers in tow. We must run.”

“I’ll be watching, baby.” The endearment slipped out, and Nick hoped that, for once, no one from SHIELD was listening in. “Be careful.”

“We always are, love.” Zeg lifted their fingertips to their lips and then pressed them against the camera lens. “Soon, love. 

The line went dead and the screen went to black a moment before flashing back to the regular camera rotation. Nick didn’t bother watching for his team walking through the halls. None of them were half the spies he credited them with being, if they showed up there. He fidgeted with the battered flip phone case until the camera briefly showed an elevator that held two unknown women in dark suits and Zeg, dressed in that gown that left miles of skin on display, draped against Sitwell’s shoulder. Nick fought down the sudden, completely irrational desire to throw the phone at the screen, and fought off the inevitable sense of disappointment when the camera cycled away from the elevator and back to an empty hall. 

____

Zeg resisted the urge to lean against the wall of the elevator, knowing they had to maintain the appearance of a begowned, elegant… woman… ish. So, instead of propping themself up like an operative on a mission (the universal lack of relaxation known to all spies, military, police, and guards everywhere) Zeg pulled a compact out of their handbag to check their lipstick and make certain that the small green light was glowing in the corner of the mirror. They smiled at the friendly little beacon, reassured that they had a way to alert Basil should things go sideways and they find themself in need of an extraction. Taking a deep breath, they reached up to slip out their in-ear comm and held it out to Jasper. 

“If this is seen on us, we two will both be in trouble,” Zeg told him as he took it and dropped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Best remove it now. Yours will be expected, as you will assumed to be our bodyguard. Anyone with whom we have had previous dealings will assume you are in contact with our Basil, so any communications you need to send to your team will be easily explained and, most likely, overlooked. However, it would be best that you do continue to play at being nothing but our date for the evening. Everyone there knows our reputation, and you’ll confuse and terrify them with your bright eyes and lovely dimple. With luck, they will think that Waarzegster has finally gone soft for nothing but a man.”

Within seconds of removing their comm, Zeg missed the sounds of the Black Widow beating down guards in the low tunnels above the conference room that they’d been listening to since leaving the room and Basil’s tasty snacks. They could still follow her progress, however, by the reaction of Hawkeye’s eyebrows. He scowled when she reported making contact, brows climbing as the fighting progressed, only settling back into their usual position with his satisfied smirk after she’d disabled her opponent. 

“Your partner is good, Mr. Barton.” Zeg smiled warmly at him. “You have excellent taste in those you choose to surround yourself with and hold onto.”

Hawkeye’s face registered his surprise, but Zeg reached out and pressed the emergency stop before he could answer. 

“This is where you go up, boys,” Zeg said to Hawkeye and Agent Coulson, smiling again, still warm but as enigmatically as they could manage. “We’ll see you again as soon as those plans are safe.”

Watching Hawkeye brace his arms against the wall, biceps and back straining as Agent Coulson climbed up him to reach the ceiling access hatch was it’s own reward, as was the disappearing view of Agent Coulson’s backside and, soon after, Hawkeye’s, too. As the trapdoor had fell back into place, Zeg slapped the emergency stop button again to let the elevator move and stepped back to slip their arm around Jasper’s shoulder, going hipcocked against him as his hand circled their waist. 

“So how _did_ you get involved in all of this? Were you initially invited to this thing?” Jasper asked while his thumb stroked their ribs lightly. The movement tickled, but it appeared to be unconscious, and they weren’t going to embarrass the man by pointing it out while he was on a live comm. 

“Your boss called to see if we had any information, and the whole thing just dropped into our lap, unfolding so neatly from there.” Zeg stroked their palm over Jasper’s scalp and then carefully straightened his tie. “Everyone knew we were in our hometown, and we are expected to know what goes on here. So everyone came to us.”

“And you’re helping us because…?” Jasper’s usually warm brown eyes were sharp and shrewd, and Zeg swallowed down a delighted laugh. 

_No_ wonder _Nicholas sent us this one. He’s a clever boy, and far more dangerous than he appears. We wonder if Nick would let us keep him?_

“If we assist with this, then we will hopefully be permanently off of SHIELD’s list.” Zeg sighed, feeling wistful. “Well, off of it that way. We would prefer to be your ally. And there is… another wish of mine that this could bring about.”

They let themself lean harder into Jasper’s side, let him support them and embrace them, just a bit. This mission seemed so simple, but there was so much riding on a positive outcome. Both internationally and to Zeg personally.

 _Well,_ Zeg mused, resuming their stroking of Jasper’s smooth pate, _if it doesn’t work, we can always just goad Nick into another fight and use that as our excuse for not moving._ They sighed. _But it’s been so long, and we are so ready to be done with that._

____

The views on her monitors cycled through the cameras in such a way that she could follow a single path at a walking pace through the hotel, checking back into the conference room while someone she was pursuing would be in the blind spots in the halls. It was a slick, convenient setup, and had let her keep track of the approach of half a dozen auction attendees with their escorts that consisted of either arm candy or muscle. And, later, if she needed to, Maria could speed the cycle up to follow a running suspect.

One camera flipped to the elevator where Barton and Coulson had vanished to be replaced with a scowling wall of a man and his extremely short, curvy female companion. Maria assumed the reason for the scowl was the too-cute-for-public canoodling going on in the far corner where Zeg was all but engulfing Jasper. 

And Jas, poor fool of a man, was staring up with wide, adoring eyes, his hands locked onto Zeg’s waist and back as if he _couldn’t_ let go. 

Maria reminded herself that it was all an act and forcibly turned her mind to the other tasks. 

The Black Widow was nearly finished clearing the rabbit warren that was the security access above the conference room. From the steady movement of her tracker and the muffled sounds of fighting that carried over the comm, Maria was starting to find herself convinced that Natasha was all she’d been talked up to be. If SHIELD could hire that… But Coulson had said Barton made it quite clear that Natasha wasn’t a joiner. 

Well, it wouldn’t be too hard to write up a specialist contract, really. And maybe Natasha would have forgiven Maria for refusing to help keep Clint and Phil together and Phil for leaving Clint by the time they all got home and both of the guys had gotten over their infatuation.

Maria made herself a mental note to check back in a month and returned her attention to the rest of the team’s locations. 

Zeg, muffled, was speaking in French to whomever was sharing their elevator. Maria didn’t bother trying to listen, knowing from the tone that it was just small talk. That and the knowledge that Jasper spoke French fluently and would be sure to collect any pertinent data kept her from caring what was going on in the elevator. Jas might _look_ like he was overwhelmed by the giant beauty of Waarzegster, but Maria was sure his head was in the game. Eighty percent sure. Seventy-seven, at least.

 _Pay attention, Mars_ , she told herself firmly, turning her attention to an incoming communication from Dutch intelligence.

____

Malene glared around the closet on the ground floor, counting the number of people handcuffed to the shelves in proportion to the number on their feet covering the prisoners. It was not a _comforting_ number. But, even though the remaining members of her staff that she trusted were few, she knew them to be solid agents. She would just have to trust that they made up in skill what they lacked in colleagues. 

Clearly, she had some work to do, clearing her own department, when this was over. In the meantime, she had a team she could trust, had cut away at least _some_ of the diseased flesh from her office, and now they had a mission to complete.

She patched herself back into SHIELD’s communication frequency, reporting herself and her team as active. 

“We’ll be in position to provide backup in five minutes,” she said as she divided her people into each of the four elevators for the ride up. “When Waarzegster has identified the person that is in possession of the plans, we’ll move in and take everyone involved into custody. We’ll leave securing the plans themselves to your team.”

“Roger that,” Maria drawled. “Looks like Coulson and Hawkeye are entering the tunnels now. We’ll keep you updated on what’s happening in the conference room.”

____

Phil’s hand closed on Clint’s bicep as the elevator resumed its upward motion after an unexpected stop, and Clint couldn’t tell if it was for balance or if Phil was just taking the opportunity to touch. Either way, Clint wasn’t going to complain about the warmth of Phil’s skin seeping through his shirt. He wanted to close his eyes and lean into the contact, but the ride was coming to an end, and it was time to get his mind out of his pants (well, okay, out of Phil’s pants) and back on the task at hand. 

The hatch in the wall swung open to reveal Natasha's lovely face. Clint knew she was pleased with herself by the way she smoothed her hair back from her face.

“Tunnels are clear,” she announced, swinging out to land soundlessly beside him. “You two go watch the auction while I go down and dig through a few hotel rooms. I think Hill has identified every room that anyone staying here came out of. Let’s see if we can’t find out a little more about who got invites for the auction, yeah?”

She kissed Clint’s cheek and spared Phil one small smile and a questioning look before opening the door that covered the controls on top of the elevator car. Of course there had to be a way to control it from up there. And trust Nat to have found it. 

Phil pulled himself up the ladder and slipped inside the narrow doorway, but Clint waited a moment, watching the elevator start down with Nat riding on top. 

“Oh, and all the goons I caught are tied up in the first tunnel to the right. Can’t miss ‘em.” She blew a kiss off of her fingertips, and Clint grinned and waved as she sank out of sight. 

A quick peek showed that Nat still knew how to secure unconscious captives, so Clint and Phil moved toward the center of the security tunnel complex. 

“There’s access to the room below from four different points. Do we split up, or do we just hang around the middle until we see if and where we’re needed?” Phil asked.

Clint pretended to weigh the options, but he knew what he was going to chose. It didn’t matter so much where they were, so long as they were both on site, and given the two, Clint had no intentions of separating himself from Phil until he absolutely had to, and if he could manage to complete the mission _and_ spend a few more minutes in Phil’s company, then no harm, no foul. Right?

“Maybe we do a quick patrol to check that all the other access doors are secured from the inside, and then we can go be bored in the control room for a bit.”

“Sounds good. Lead the way.” Phil bowed Clint ahead of him, but swung into step close enough to let his hand rest, hot and reassuring, against the small of Clint’s back.

____

Nat flipped open the hatch from the top of the elevator as they approached the floor that was her target. Two pairs of extremely startled eyes swung her direction as she nearly gave an elderly couple a heart attack. 

“Maintenance.” She smiled sweetly and pointed to the tool belt around her waist. “Everything is in fine working order. Do enjoy your stay.” 

They stared blankly at her until the elevator came to a stop, and Nat held her bland, hopefully reassuring smile until she could slip into the hall as soon as the doors slid open. She ducked sideways into the first electrical operations room she came to, locking the door behind her as she did. Pulling out her phone, she dialed a number Zeg had programmed into it during the planning portion of their stay at Zeg’s country house.

“Miss Potts, this is the Black Widow.” She paused to listen. “Yes. As Waarzegster informed you, the auction is commencing tonight. SHIELD is on site, and Stark’s intellectual property should be back in safe hands before midnight.”

“Of course, Ms. Potts. Of course. My partner and I will be in contact as soon as we land. Safe travels.”

____

Clint was surprised by the ease with which he found himself moving around Phil in the crowded, claustrophobic confines of the security passages above the conference room. Natasha came and went in his ear, reporting in that she’d found this person or that organization’s rooms, but not finding anything that gave any _new_ information about their operations. Hill kept the Sitwell on a private line, to keep him from being startled by chatter from any of the rest of the team. And Malene had her team assembled on the lower floors, spreading out to cover any exits and to make their way up. Since Clint and Phil had to stay quiet to avoid being heard in the room below, they both switched their comm units to passive, so they could listen without anyone expecting to hear them.

Phil was holding Clint’s tools while Clint set about permanently damaging the lock on the third access hatch from the room below. They worked silently, every move in sync as Phil braced the lock closed and Clint jammed it, snapping off bits of metal that would require the whole thing to be disassembled to remove.

They finally turned toward the fourth door, intending to leave the fifth-- the door from the center of the miniature compound-- unlocked as a secondary escape route for themselves. Clint happened to glance up as he knelt to wedge the lock.

“Phil,” he whispered urgently. “Does that look like a detonator to you?”

Above their head was a small black box with an angry, slow-pulsing red light. A coiled wire led from it up into a panel in the ceiling, and a tiny antenna stuck out at right angles along one side.

Zeg and Maria and all the chatter from the conference room faded into a muted buzz as the adrenaline kicked up.

From the corner of his eye, Clint saw Phil rise from kneeling on the floor and swallow hard. His hands came up to lift one side of the panel, Clint caught the other, and together they eased it out of the gap and to the floor.

“Yeah,” Phil said, arms folding over his chest as his shoulders hunched defensively. “When it’s attached to a bomb like that, it _does_ look suspiciously like a detonator.”

“Think we should defuse that?” Clint tried to play cool, but he could tell that Phil heard the nervousness in his voice when Phil reached out to squeeze Clint’s wrist. And, well, fair enough. Clint was _very good_ at some kinds of technology. He could hack most computer systems with a fair amount of ease if he was given a few days and a hint or two. He’d done as much programming as Nat on the setup that they used for patching into security systems on jobs like that one at the office building when everything had gone to hell. 

Bombs though… Well, Clint wasn’t _particularly_ skilled with defusing explosives. Setting off explosions, sure. But stopping them was a little trickier. Maybe Clint just liked blowing shit up too much, because he’d always had some kind of mental block when it came to figuring out what wires went where.

Phil touched Clint’s wrist again, smiling when Clint glanced his way and then signing to him.

_We look more. I stop it._

Phil reached up to activate his comm unit, but there was a pop on the line to indicate Maria had flipped it back to active before Phil’s finger made contact with his ear.

“Did you get that, Coulson?” Hill’s voice was tight. “You’re supposed to be looking for a goddamned bomb.”

“We’re way ahead of you, Mars.” Phil’s voice was dry as the desert, and Clint felt a little guilty for how much it made him want to shove the man against the wall and hump his leg.

____

Maria turned on the four cameras in the conference room, cursed at the ficus, and turned up the feed from Jasper’s comm. 

“Ian Quinn!” Zeg’s usually smooth purr carried an edge. “How lovely to _finally_ meet you. We’ve heard a rumor that we have you to thank for our invitation to this… fascinating show.”

Quinn’s reply was muddied, and Maria hissed at Jasper to move _closer, goddamnit, get in there_. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Zeg shifted to lean on Jasper’s shoulder again, idly petting his neck as they spoke to a suited man whose back was toward the lens. They were clearly speaking close to Jasper’s ear so that Maria could overhear and record the conversation. “Our business relies on us knowing these sorts of things. We will be straight with you: we have no intention of _not_ coming out of this the highest bidder. In addition to the purchase price, we can assure you that we have the development facilities such a project would require, and we _certainly_ have the distribution framework in place.”

There was another muffled reply from Quinn, and then Zeg turned toward Jasper with a high watt smile. Maria felt her eyebrows lift as Zeg glanced at the camera and _winked_. 

“Lovely boy, do fetch us a drink, yes?” They leaned down to kiss his cheek which hid their face from the camera as well as the room at large, and they whispered urgently in his ear. “Tell Coulson to sweep for explosives. No one but the buyer is supposed to come out of this alive. We’ll explain _later_.”

Jasper’s face didn’t twitch a bit, and he smiled adoringly up at Zeg, managing to look utterly cow-eyed and completely moronic. Maria was impressed despite herself. 

“Message received, Jas,” Maria told him. “But figure out where the _hell_ that’s coming from!”

Jasper’s hand flew toward his comm, stopping short to scratch at the side of his neck, but he bobbed his chin once in acknowledgement. Maria quickly flipped to Phil and Clint’s line. 

“Did you get that, Coulson?” She snapped. “You’re supposed to be looking for a goddamn bomb.”

She wasn’t sure what Phil’s reply meant, but she _was_ reminded of how mouthy a bastard he could be on the comms.

“Do you have a bomb or don’t you, Phil?” She scrubbed at her eye with one knuckle, suddenly feeling slightly ashamed of how she sometimes treated Jasper in command.

“We do, and I’ll let you know more as soon as we’re sure what we’re dealing with.”

____

“Jasper, darling, we’re cold.” Zeg slithered into Jasper’s personal space as he returned carrying a crystal flute of champagne. Taking the glass, Zeg turned on a sultry smile and practically oozed seduction, all husky voice and distracting perfume as they inched closer. “Give us your jacket.”

Sliding his coat off of his shoulders automatically, Jasper spared half a moment wondering why Zeg hadn’t thought to bring a wrap, but he handed it over and watched them pull it on. It left an astonishing amount of forearm exposed, but it wrapped easily over their narrow shoulders and chest. Jasper decided he could think more clearly now that there was less skin on display. 

And then Zeg kissed him.

Jasper stopped breathing with the first press of their soft, mobile lips against his own. He sucked in air hard as their tongue darted out to brush across his bottom lip, and then the pressure against his mouth was gone. The tease of Zeg’s mouth returned over the dimple on his cheek before moving up to nip at his earlobe. Jasper closed his eyes and tried to figure out what the _hell_ was going on.

“Alert your team, love. We were just told that we apparently bid high.” Zeg whispered against his comm. “I will be taken out of this room in about ten minutes, and that’s when they’ll likely blow the place. You need to get to safety.”

He was a goddamned _professional_ , unable to be distracted from doing his job, even by the second-most shocking kiss of his entire life. Jasper sucked in another breath trying to get a grip on his hammering heart and the goosebumps Zeg’s breath was raising along his neck. He was certain he had himself under control until he heard his mouth gasp out, “Roger, sweetheart.”

____

Natasha was patched into Clint’s hearing aid through their old comm device in the ear that didn't hold her SHIELD-issue communicator. It wasn’t that she didn’t think she _could_ trust the SHIELD agents, but she wasn’t in the habit of trusting anyone. It was how she’d stayed alive so long in her line of work.

Digging through hotel rooms proved both unfruitful and tedious, and Nat was about two minutes from quitting. And then she heard the word “detonator,” and she stopped riffling through a pile of tighty-whities, leaving them jumbled instead of rearranging the drawer to its original state. She flew out of the room without latching the door and headed for the elevators. A few curt words to Malene as she passed let Natasha collect some backup, and then she was heading for the security suite. 

Clint was very good at many, _many_ things, but bombs weren’t one of them.

 _Keep him safe until I get there, Coulson._

____

Phil dragged his hand across his mouth, feeling uncertain, and then steadied himself and turned to Clint. He hadn’t missed the way Clint had gone exceptionally green when they’d uncovered the first bomb. And how had they missed the roof access in all their planning? Why hadn’t the five ceiling hatches been on any of the plans Waarzegster had provided them with? 

There wasn’t time to solve that puzzle now, so Phil pushed it aside and shifted his focus to the explosives in front of them. They had to get them defused and sent down to Natasha or Malene, or, hell, even Mars only a floor below. Theoretically, at least, that would keep them from going up when the bullets started flying, and Phil was pretty damned sure there would be bullets very, _very_ soon.

“Coulson, Hill,” Malene’s voice was tight. “Just got a report from outside the building. There’s a helicopter overhead and there are armed men on the roof. Looks like the auction is over.”

“Hmm, really was a fire sale,” Clint quipped, his grip tightening on the grip of his bow.

“If we defuse all but one,” Phil said slowly, hoping his estimations were correct, “we should be able to blow just enough to collapse the tunnels or at least to _mostly_ collapse the tunnels without bringing the whole roof down on our heads. I’ll show you how on this one, and you get moving!”

Natasha appeared in the doorway of the elevator shaft access panel, eyes tight, and jaw set, but she smiled when she saw Clint. She stepped into the tunnel and gestured behind her.

“Lookie! I brought friends!” Her faux brightness made Clint laugh and relax, and Phil wanted to kiss her for knowing how to draw Clint out of his nerves. Four men in tacsuits came in behind her, presumably on loan from Malene. “They’re going to clear out the men I took care of earlier while we deal with these explosives you’ve found.” 

They worked frantically for several minutes, and then Maria’s voice came over the comms.

“Zeg says three minutes, are you about wrapped up there?”

“One left,” Phil said. “Southwest corner.”

“Nat, just go. Take what we’ve detached and get them out of range.” Clint was having a low, urgent argument with Natasha near the door to the elevator shaft. “I’ll blow it from in here, and we’ll head down to cover the conference room until Malene’s people get here. Just _go_.”

She took a breath to argue with him, and then her eyes met Phil’s over Clint’s shoulder. Phil stared back, uncertain what she was looking for, but letting her read his own determination.

“Keep him safe, or I will _end_ you,” she said, her gentle tone at odds with the harshness of her words.

“If I don’t, I’ll let you.” Phil answered calmly. Clint’s eyes went wide as he looked over his shoulder at Phil, and Phil smiled at the look of confusion. “I’m not leaving his side, Natasha. I swear.”

Her mouth firmed, and she nodded sharply before turning to Clint, squeezing his arm hard. “And take care of him, too, Clint. He’s… He’s acceptable.”

“Go, Nat.” Clint kissed her cheek and pushed her toward the exit before pointedly turning his back on her. He swayed toward Phil, hips loose and smile easy as he prowled up the tunnel. 

“You talk a big game, Agent,” he drawled, edging in close. “You sure you can handle the danger?”

“If I’m supposed to say that Danger is my middle name, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.” Phil caught Clint’s hip when he was close enough, drawing him in to exchange one hot, hard kiss. “It’s Joshua.”

Clint huffed a laugh and then turned to examine the small pulsing light on the remaining detonator. “So how’re we going to set it off and get out of before we both die of smoke inhalation?”

“I’ll open the latch just before you fire.” Phil squatted to examine the lock on the last functional hatch to the room below. 

“Before I fire?” Clint’s face squinched in confusion.

“Well I’m not going to _manually_ detonate the damn thing,” Phil snarked. “And do you see anyone else with a quiver full of arrows and exceptional aim?”

Clint grinned at him, manic in the dim light, and dropped to one knee, nocking and drawing in a single smooth movement. Phil’s fingers found the lock, and he watched Clint as he drew a bead on his target. They inhaled in perfect sync, Clint readying for the shot as Phil lifted the latch to slide it free.

_BOOM_

Before Clint could loose his arrow, the bomb blew. The resulting concussion knocked Phil’s grip away from the latch, and hurled Clint like a ragdoll. Phil’s arms came up to catch Clint’s body as it flew toward him, away from the light and heat of the explosion. He tried to roll toward the hatch, but he couldn’t find it again in the smoke and confusion, and all Phil could do was cradle Clint’s limp form against his chest and hope. 

A second explosion roared somewhere nearby, a dragon in the dark.

Phil had just enough time for a single thought:

_At least I don’t have to go home without him._

And then they were falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Is Zeg a traitor; Jas in peril; wrapping up the mission
> 
> I TRIED to warn everyone that there were feels and that I am evil, terrible, and just plain mean. I DID TRY TO WARN YOU! 
> 
> Two weeks to the next update, now that THIS monster of a chapter (and both of the active strains of flu) are out of the way. 
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO! There's another [Nick and Zeg](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3101606) story up! Part of the [The Pirate and Merc collection](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Pirateandmerc), which is part of the [Two-Man Rule series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/61710). They're not following the same history as THIS Nick and Zeg, but that Nick is also ace, and that Zeg is... pretty much just the same as THIS Zeg, only they had a little less love in their life. 
> 
> I would apologize for how long this took, but I'm not all that sorry. It's been two months wherein I have lived a LOT of life in a short span of time. There were WONDERFUL moments (Christmas day at Universal Orlando with my family, laughing until we cried, playing, being together), there were terrible moments (having to have my oldest son's dog put down; it was hard, and we are sad. He had a good, long life, and we're gonna miss him like hell), there were some _truly bizarre_ moments (our furnace qualifies as a bizarre moment). But it's been two very FULL months for me, any way you slice it.
> 
> I AM, however, glad that my life-enforced hiatus is coming to an end, and I am back to writing regularly. 
> 
> I will see you all again on the weekend of the 13-15 with a NEW CHAPTER! 
> 
> With all kinds of thanks to my beloved beta for her killer work tonight to get this thing out. So I'm an hour later than I planned. I think we're pretty damned awesome for making it this close!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission wraps, and the future looms.

The helicopter lurched and swayed as it fought to gain altitude, and Zeg’s stomach lurched and swayed along with it. The second explosion, when it came, should not have been unexpected. After an evening of waiting for everything to go wrong, however, Zeg was startled into an uncharacteristic twitch, one hand rising to clutch their throat as the other gripped, white-knuckled, onto their handbag. Decades of practiced control kept their eyes turned forward, and they _would not_ think of their faithful Basil or their new associates. If they all were alive, they all would have to help themselves. If they all were not…

Zeg was not accustomed to playing the role of hero, last person standing, _you’re-our-only-hope_. They were used to being All-for-Zeg and Zeg-for-One. With a wistful thought of Nick and his bravery and his sense of Right and Wrong, they turned their attention back to the task at hand. They might not know much about heroing, but there was no one better at getting what they wanted than Zeg, and Ian Quinn’s arrogance left him wide open to their brand of manipulation. Time to wear-- as Nick called it-- their game face.

They shifted under their seatbelt, smoothing down the skirt of their gown and letting the slit fall open to expose one long leg, baring it to several inches above their knee. 

“So where _are_ you taking us, Mister Quinn?” Zeg opened their handbag and dug out their compact without looking to Quinn to gauge the effect of their apparent invitation. He was a man of innuendo and double-speak, not brave enough to tackle anyone or anything straight on until he was certain he had the upper hand. Zeg decided to throw blatant sexuality at him, just to see if they could knock him out of his comfort zone, startle any information out of him. “If you _really_ wished to have us to yourself, all you had to do was ask. Who would _ever_ say no to _you?_ ”

“I have someone special for you to meet, Ms. Waarzegster,” Quinn answered. “Someone who will help you to understand your purchase and how useful it could be to you and your… bottom line.”

 _We will not vomit on the man’s shoes,_ Zeg told themself firmly. _No matter how much the man deserves it for being offensive, and no matter how the shoes deserve it for being tacky._

They opened their compact as if to check their lipstick. The dim green light was off, and they swallowed their urge to make use of some of Nick’s more colorful language, instead pretending to wipe a smudge away from the edge of their lips. As if Waarzegster wore lipstick that would _dare_ to creep outside its lines! From the corner of their eye, Zeg could see Quinn openly staring at the pale skin where their leg was framed by scarlet satin. Not immune to flattery and ego stroking then. Or to a simple exposure of a little thigh. 

_Hmm, useful._

“Someone that can help you begin to set up your manufacturing operation _tonight_.” Quinn reached out, palm coming to rest, damp and hot, on Zeg’s knee. And that was just-- Zeg fought off a shiver.

“How _marvelous_ , Mister Quinn.” They shifted slightly, allowing their gown to show another inch of flesh, smiling as they stared boldly across into Quinn’s calculating eyes. “And perhaps tomorrow we two can dine together?”

_And we will feed you your own goddamned hands, since you can’t keep the slimy things to yourself!_

They dropped their compact back into their handbag and leaned their head against the back of the seat.

“We will certainly have something worth celebrating by then,” Zeg told him, slanting their eyes toward him flirtatiously. They smiled again at Quinn, limpid and sultry, and flatly refused to allow themself to shiver as his thumb stroked the edge of their kneecap.

____

 

Jasper pushed himself to his elbows to shove a ficus off the lower half of his body before giving himself a quick once over: splitting headache; slight soreness over ribs on the left; stiff knee; breathing and vision both unobscured; ears ringing but hearing otherwise functioning. All in all, he’d certainly woken up to worse.

Propping himself as far up as an elbow, he studied the damage to the room around him; it appeared to have fared worse than Jasper in the explosions. Then again, there was no way for an entire room to fit under a table. Jas hoped the sudden rush of whimsy didn’t indicate a concussion. The room was torn to shreds. Half of the ceiling had come down and the power was out. Spaced evenly around the walls of the room, several of the emergency lights flickered fitfully as if trying to come to life; Jasper’s higher brain functions could relate.

He sat up and rubbed his palms over his face, trying to remember what’d happened in the minutes leading up to the explosion. Zeg warned him, kissed him-- twice-- Jas rather froze up at that memory, nearly as much as he had at the time. The second kiss was actually more shocking than the first, because, _completely unintentionally_ , Jasper had kissed back. And then Zeg had touched his cheek and swept away to wait near the door to a small balcony, Jasper’s jacket wrapped around their thin shoulders.

There was something about the jacket, about knowing they had his jacket-- Jas tried to concentrate, to figure out why that mattered or how it helped, but gave it up as useless until he managed to get his brain fully online.

Zeg had turned back and blown him a kiss, eyebrows raised in warning, and Jasper had clearly read the word _duck_ in their eyes; he’d managed to dive for the nearest table just as all hell broke loose. When he’d popped up between the two explosions, Zeg and Quinn were both gone from the balcony, whisked away, by a helicopter, a _very_ long ladder and a car, or a jet with vertical flight and fixed-point stability abilities. Jas had started to make his way across room to see if he could find them when the second concussion had thrown off his balance and sent him stumbling into the ficus. 

What mostly followed had been a lot of crashing, shouting, moaning, and falling down. Other people in the room hadn’t fared much better.

 _Shit shit shit,_ he thought, shoving himself the rest of the way to his feet. _I lost the the suspect_ and _our contact. Maria’s gonna follow through on that threat to scorch off my taste buds. Fuck._

A quick glance showed no one moving nearby; apparently, no one else had the gift of Zeg’s foresight. Which, well, Fortune Teller, right? _Heh._. But no, really, though, how _had_ they known?

Jasper shook off the question as something to worry about _later_. This was not the time to doubt Waarzegster. Or Fury. Or Jasper’s own gut, which had been purring like a cat since the first time he’d met Zeg. He’d just have to wait until debrief to find out how Zeg had deduced that the bomb would explode and nearly take out the entire auction.

The other auction invitees and their bodyguards and companions lay about on the floor, most of them in some state of groaning and rolling about. They clearly didn’t make it to cover before the ceiling came down, but Jasper found himself hoping that no one was dead yet. He turned toward the hallway, edged forward one step, and promptly tripped over the potted ficus that had landed across his legs.

 _At least the tree’s out of the way of Hill’s damned camera._

The faint green glow that showed the camera was operational comforted him, and he tossed it a casual little salute-- in case Maria was watching. 

_She’s watching. She’s fine. She_ has _to be fine._

He swallowed hard, shoved all thoughts of his partner and friend away, and carefully reached around his tender ribs to slip his gun free from its holster even as he pressed his other index finger to the comm unit in his left ear.

“Mars, you read me? Mars? Coulson?” He nudged the closest limp form with the toe of his formerly perfectly-polished wingtip, and heaved a relieved sigh when the person’s hand clenched and unclenched. Jas had seen more than enough dead bodies before. He’d even been complicit in _making_ dead bodies before. It was just-- he didn’t much _like_ dead bodies, and finding bodies that weren’t dead was always a welcome surprise. “Mars, we have multiple casualties, possible fatalities.”

Huffing a frustrated sigh, Jasper gave up on the comm and began picking his way around overturned chairs and overturned people toward the door. He was two feet away from the slightly brighter emergency lights of the hall when a hand shot out of the shadows of a heap of rubble, wrapped around his ankle, and dragged him to the floor.

“Isn’t this how every horror movie _ever_ starts?” he thought with only a touch of hysteria as he twisted to land on his uninjured side, leveling his pistol in the direction the grab had come from.

____

 

Thanks to Zeg’s warning, passed on by Jasper, Maria was prepared when the first explosion rattled the duct where she’d established her command center. She’d shoved the computers to one side and braced them with her body, wedging a foot against one side, her hands against the other, and her other foot on the ceiling of the tiny space. The second blast, however, caught her off-guard, and she was flung backward from where she’d begun to rise, crushing the laptops together as she’d fallen.

“Sitwell? Coulson? You guys okay?” 

She pushed herself off the metal floor, hands stinging from the glass of shattered computer screens. One appeared mostly undamaged and was glowing like a beacon in the suddenly dark space. No emergency lights down here. Mars turned it to see a scene from the camera that had been blocked by the ficus, and, well, it was clear now, at least.

“Romanov? Barton?”

There was motion in front of the overturned table nearest the camera. It resolved itself into a man pushing himself partially off the floor, the glow of an emergency light glimmering off of the man’s polished scalp. 

_Jasper, thank god!_

The comms were clearly down, so Maria gave up on the computers and quickly checked that her sidearm was secure and loaded before crawling toward the access hatch. Thank _everything_ that Jas alive, but somewhere up there Phil had been standing much too close to whatever had gone off first and, quite possibly, second, and she needed to _get there_ , to check Jas over herself and find out if Phil was still alive. She’d seen Zeg looking far too pleased with themself as they blew a mocking kiss back toward the conference room moments before they were whisked from the balcony along with Quinn. _He’d_ been smirking, and the hand he’d splayed across Zeg’s bare back was possessive and really quite personal.

If those bastards were in this together, she would fill them both full of lead. If they’d managed to kill her other best friend, she would revive them for the pleasure of killing them much slower and more painfully the second time around. She drew a gun from her thigh as she eased out of the vent into the darkened hallway.

In the space she had just vacated, the last remaining computer screen showed Jasper climbing out from under the tree and a single line of text from HQ:

 _What the fuck just happened there? Find Z. I’m sending backup._  
____

Clint came to with a splitting headache, a deeply wrenched shoulder, and his face smashed into something that felt like a stomach. A bit of patting and prodding proved that the stomach-feeling thing was an actual stomach, and oh what a _familiar_ stomach it was. Clint pressed a kiss into a gap between buttons and tried to push himself up. Some of the debris that was on his back slid, giving him enough room to check mobility in all his limbs. After a moment of more wiggling and more sliding, Phil’s chest vibrated under Clint’s hand, but the sound didn’t make it through Clint’s hearing aids. 

_Shit_.

Of course it didn’t, because Clint was no longer _wearing_ his hearing aids. Fucking bombs. 

The room was too dark to sign for Phil, and Clint had no ears, so he opted for the next best way to check on Phil’s condition, shoving himself further up Phil’s body and searching out Phil’s lips with his own. Okay, it wasn’t _exactly_ something found in a first aid manual, but it was as fast a way as Clint could think of to check on Phil’s condition-- physical and mental. Effective, too, as Phil’s lips quirked, puckered, and then opened, eagerly kissing Clint back.

Phil’s condition: awake, alert, and very talented with his tongue. Good enough to finish the mission, then.

There was dust and smoke and ash on Phil’s lips-- and probably Clint’s, too, but within moments their lips moving together, most of that had been cleared away to leave nothing between their mouths but shadows and their mingling breath. Clint reluctantly pulled away, hesitating as he did to brush his nose against Phil’s, catching the glint of dim light off of Phil’s open eyes and feeling another line of tension slide out of his back. 

“I’m okay,” Clint whispered, breathing out the words and hoping he was audible but not too loud. Decades without hearing well made him fairly blase about losing his ears on missions, and he and Nat each stored a pair of backups in their go bags for just this sort of circumstance. Less high tech ears, granted, but still effective enough to let him read lips with fair accuracy. He considered again trying to figure out a way to pack the delicate things in or on his quiver; being in the dark with no hearing made him feel hobbled. “No ears, but okay.”

Phil nodded against his lips and lifted his head for one more fast, hard kiss that tasted like relief. One of his big palms splayed out across Clint’s lower back, the heat of it sinking through Clint’s shirt and branding itself against his skin. Clint knew they couldn’t lie here all night, but reluctance to push himself away from Phil stilled his limbs. His hands trembled against Phil’s neck, residual adrenaline and fear bleeding off, making his skin too tight and his heartbeat erratic. If they’d been just a couple feet closer to the explosion… 

_Shit. Nat._ The thought nailed him with the shock of Nat’s Widow’s Bites, and a new wave of panic tightened a knot in Clint’s stomach. His teeth clenched to keep his supper from making an unscheduled reappearance. 

“How’s the team?” Clint whispered against Phil’s cheek. He swallowed hard, hands clenching against Phil’s shoulders as his ears rang and blood pounded under his skin. “Nat get away clean?”

Phil tensed, shrugged, touched Clint’s ear and then his own and shook his head. Of _course_ the explosion had taken out their comms. They weren’t going to catch a damn _bit_ of a break from here to the end of the op, if past experience was anything to go by. Clint silently cursed himself for how long it’d taken him to even wonder about Nat, and shifted his palms to the floor beside Phil’s head to prepare to push himself to his feet.

“I gotta find Nat,” he whispered, and Phil’s hands again tightened on his ribs, holding him close.

He reached for Clint’s hand and to fingerspell against Clint’s palm. _Jas. Zeg. Injured. Clear the room first._

Clint shook his head vehemently. 

All of that was Phil’s problem. The last time he’d seen Nat, he’d stuffed her into a metal box to dangle above the ground, surrounded by secured rent-a-henchmen and competent-but-not-as-good-as-Clint intelligence agents. And that was, presumably, where she’d been when the first explosion had blown Clint off his feet, sent him tumbling into Phil (he felt another wave of guilt for how _relieved_ he’d felt when he recognized Phil’s arms pulling him close). There had been a second rumble; Clint was _certain_ he’d heard a second blast. Where the _fuck_ had Nat been when that one blew? 

_What if we fucked up defusing one of the bombs she went down with?_

His breath caught on a sob, and Phil’s arms came up to wrap tightly around Clint’s ribcage, squeezing hard, hands moving minutely against Clint’s back. Phil’s lips moved against Clint’s temple, likely whispering soothing words, and Clint blessed his lack of hearing. Since he couldn’t _hear_ what Phil was saying, he couldn’t be talked down by it. Clint closed his eyes and considered all the things he could have done differently, all the ways he could have better protected Natasha. All of the things he _should_ have done to protect her:

If he’d just taken the shot to blow the first bomb _before_ it had been detonated remotely. If he hadn’t wasted time flexing his biceps and ass for Phil’s admiring gaze. If he hadn’t let Nat get into the elevator packed with badguys and explosives. If he’d kept his mind on the mission and not felt the need to throw himself at the pretty-pretty man in the pretty-pretty suit with the pretty-pretty eyes. If Phil had been a dick instead of a sweetheart with badass tendencies. If Clint hadn’t been so _stupid_ as to let himself fall in love with someone he couldn’t have. 

Clint tensed all over, muscles screaming with the need to get loose and _go find Natasha_. He started to push himself away.

Beneath him, Phil’s whole body stiffened, and his hand came up to turn Clint’s face to one side to make him look. Someone was walking across the room, creeping from somewhere in a back corner, heading toward the door. Clint could just make out a pair of legs picking their way through the debris from the tunnel that had come down with Phil and himself. A reflection from one of the barely-there emergency lights flickered along the outline of a pistol in the man’s hand, and Clint reacted on instinct. His hand flew out to wrap around one of the man’s ankles, and his grip tightened until the bones crunched together in his fist.

Phil arms shifted, bracing Clint’s body, and Clint locked his shoulder and _heaved_.

It would have been effective, had the person he grabbed not been well-trained enough to land facing him, barrel of the gun aimed directly between Clint’s eyes.

____

Maria cursed the darkness in the stairwell for the umpteenth time as she tripped up the first step of the next flight of stairs. The door behind her swung open and flashlight beams danced into the narrow, darkened space, as dizzying as they were blinding. Maria swung to face them, lifting her gun even as she crouched down defensively.

“Maria!” Malene quickly lowered her light out of Maria’s eyes and gestured for the team that flanked her to do the same. “Our communications are down, too. Do you have _any_ idea what’s going on up there?” She fumbled with the duffle on her shoulder until she dug out a second flashlight, which she passed to Maria.

“I had one functioning camera in the room after the second blast.” Maria lowered her gun and pushed back a lock of hair that had escaped her ponytail before accepting the light and turning on the beam. “Jasper was up, but I have nothing from Coulson, Barton, or Romanov. Waarzegster, however, left by the balcony with Ian Quinn just before things started blowing up. Seems there was a handy helicopter nearby.”

Malene shook her head, face dark, and waved a hand toward the top floor of the building. “One man came down from the elevator that was carrying the defused bombs and the prisoners from the security complex. The car was loose, but my men that were onboard with Romanov were okay. They said she went up to secure the car before the blasts and never returned. I assume that she went to back up Phil and Barton.”

“We need to get up there. From what I could see, it appeared a chunk of the ceiling came down in the conference room” Maria fell into step beside Malene as they continued their climb toward the uppermost floor of the hotel. “I hope you have enough people to secure the room. And you might wanna call for medical services.”

 

“They should be already on their way.” Malene paused to watch a group of terrified vacationers scurry down the stairs, nodding to a member of her team to follow them down. “I sent someone outside to call for first responders and backup.”

Maria nodded, and the rest of the climb to the top was made in silence. Outside the conference room, the entire team paused to regroup, stifling coughs and sneezes and covering their mouths and noses with shirts and scarves. Maria just mopped at her eyes with one sleeve, blinking to clear her vision, before she pointed to the door and gestured Malene to the other side of the frame. They both stepped into the doorframe together, leveling their guns as they quickly scanned for threats. 

Five feet in front of them, Jasper squeaked out a startled grunt and tumbled to the floor, twisting as he did to aim a gun into his attacker’s face. Maria aimed her own gun and light toward the frozen tableau, an unexpected laugh suddenly forcing its way out of her chest. 

Phil lay on the ground, still and soot-smudged, with his legs pinned by a pile of debris and his torso pinned by a sheepishly grinning Clint Barton whose knotted hand was locked around Jasper’s ankle. 

”Uhhh, Hi, Agent Hill. Sitwell.” Barton’s voice came out a bit too loud. “I can’t hear a damn thing, but Phil’s okay. He used tongue when I kissed him, anyway. Have you seen Widow?”

In the sharp light of a half-dozen flashlights, Phil’s face turned pink beneath the dirt.

____

 

Phil lay very still, playing dead and wondering if he could just keep that up until the mission was over and they all went away. Maybe, if he pretended hard enough, Maria would start to actually worry that Phil _was_ dead and forget what Clint said about Phil’s tongue. Maybe, with a little luck, he could _actually_ die and not have to hear Jasper use the phrase “O Face” again. Maybe he should quit deluding himself and get on with the goddamn mission.

“Come on, babe.” Clint rough fingertips brushed Phil’s cheek. Phil wondered if he could lie there just a little bit longer, just to keep Clint touching him. “They know you’re alive. Give it up.”

With a sigh of defeat, Phil gave up his deceased act and sat up slowly, grateful for the pull of Clint’s strong hand on his shoulder.

“Mind getting that light out of my face?” Phil squinted up at Maria, surprised by how hoarse his voice came out. Just how the hell close to that explosion _had_ he been, anyway? As Maria angled the light out of his eyes, Phil turned his attention to Clint. 

He tried to keep his thoughts mission-centric has he checked for injuries, but he couldn't help the tenderness that had built between them from leaking through. For one breathless moment, Phil lost himself in tracing over a deep scrape on Clint’s cheekbone with one cautious finger before brushing his thumb across a deep gouge over the bridge of Clint’s nose.

Clint flinched away from the touch. Phil held one hand up flat and made a chopping motion on the palm with the side of the other, pulling his eyebrows together questioningly.

 _Broken?_

_Nah._ Clint smiled self-deprecatingly as he shook his head, crinkling his nose. He flinched, sighed, and bounced both hands in front of him, palms up, rolling his eyes. _Maybe._

Phil smoothed his fingers over Clint’s cheek again, thumb brushing the corner of Clint’s eyelashes, and Clint pulled away and shook his head. Phil let his hand drop and started shoving the metal and ceiling tiles off of his legs, grateful that Clint stayed put and helped him get free. They leaned on each other for support until they were both standing, and then Clint stepped back, getting free of Phil’s personal space as quickly as he could. They both froze, Clint looking panicked and Phil feeling lost, neither speaking until Maria coming back from a circuit of the room interrupted their staring contest.

“So what _happened_ up there?” Maria swept her light across the room watching the agents with Malene spread out to examine the the other bidders and their escorts. They were arresting the least injured and setting up triage in the hallway for those whose injuries required actual medical attention. “You were going to disable the explosives, then you found rooftop access and heard about the men on the roof, and then…?”

Phil gave her a quick recap on the premature detonation of the bomb and how the second explosion had taken the floor out from under his feet before he turned to wave Jasper over to join them. 

“Without Waarzegster’s warning, we’d have been dead.” He shook his head, trying to displace a sudden image of Clint lying cold, broken, and still. _Because I really needed a new nightmare as a souvenir._ “How did they know the place was wired to blow?” 

“They didn’t say, and I didn’t have time to ask.” Jasper shrugged, sliding his gun into its holster as the paramedics began to arrive along with local law enforcement. “I don’t know if Quinn told them, or if they just figured it out on their own.” He made a face and snorted. “Fortune teller, or whatever.”

“Or they were working with Quinn all along.” Maria folded her arms over her chest. “This would have been a rather convenient method of dealing with SHIELD all while looking perfectly innocent to keep Fury sharing information. At least, I _assume_ that Fury shares information; it’s Zeg’s preferred method of payment.”

Jasper shook his head vehemently, his face squashing into a scowl. He crossed his arms, feet planted wide, head ducking bullishly, mirroring Maria’s pose. “I don’t believe that. No way. If Zeg wanted us dead, it would have happened sometime in the last two weeks, and no one would ever have been able to trace it back to them. At the very least, they wouldn’t have warned me about the bombs.”

“We don’t have time to argue about what Zeg did or did not want.” Phil began, stepping between his teammates and best friends before they could begin another fight. It had gotten extremely old over the last few weeks, and this was not the time or place for their weird tension to get in the way. He was interrupted by Basil bursting through the doorway with a member of Dutch intelligence hanging from each arm as they desperately barked commands to halt in English, Dutch, and French. He stalked over to Jasper, thoroughly unconcerned with the added weight of two large men.

“Where’s Boss?” He demanded, shaking himself free of the human weights that were trying to drag him back. One of the men reached for a gun, but Malene stepped up and waved them away after indicating that Basil was with her.

“Last I saw them, they were out on the balcony with Quinn.” He gestured toward Maria. “She saw the two of them removed via that helicopter that was humming around out there.”

“What?!” Basil appeared to swell, dwarfing Sitwell with both size and righteous anger. “Whadya mean you let Boss get in a goddamned _heliacopter_ with a CRIMINAL! Bro, you didn’t _really_ just let Boss go flying off like that with no backup and without making sure their tracker was working, did you, bro? Are you _stupid_ , bro? Why didn’t you stop them?”

“Because there is absolutely no way to stop Zeg from doing whatever the hell they want to!” Jasper snapped, setting his jaw and stepping into Basil’s space. Basil’s face turned an interesting shade of purple, and he sucked in a breath.

“Bro, I _like_ you, bro.” Basil’s voice dropped to a menacing rumble. “But it was your job to watch Boss while Boss was out of my sight. I _trusted_ you, bro!”

Phil tuned out the argument that ensued, turning to Maria instead and translating in ASL for Clint as he went. He asked what she’d seen on the monitors and what the chances were to get communications back up. Clint grabbed his wrists, stilling his translation before she got two words into her answer.

“Has anyone heard from Natasha?” he asked Maria. His fingers were digging too hard into Phil’s arm, and Phil fought not to jerk away from his grip, struggling to be solid and safe for Clint. “She was taking the surplus of explosives and the prisoners down in the elevator.” His face blanched further. “Is she…” His voice trailed off in a choke, and Phil covered his clutching hand with his own fingers, wishing he could pull Clint into his arms and protect him from his fears.

Basil swung away from Jasper, huffing a breath that ruffled his outsize lip shrubbery.

“I came up through the elevator shaft and found the car where she left the Dutch guys and most of the bombs. Asked ‘em where she’d gone, and they said she strung up the elevator and left out the top before the first explosion,” Basil spoke kindly to Clint, and Phil gently pulled his hands free to begin translating. “Her people--” he pointed to Malene-- “Seemed to think she made the second blast. And, bro, it looked like it. I went up, and there was a hole to the roof and a bunch of big, ugly bros rolling around up top. They were all down with great prejudice.” Clint’s shoulders went slack with relief. “Looked like something the Widow’d do.”

Phil reached out to cup Clint’s cheek, feeling some of his own fear easing with the news about Natasha, but Clint stiffened and backed away. He shook his head, signing to Phil with shaking hands and a sudden lack of complete thoughts.

_No. Stop. I have… think… I need…Concentrate. She’s my sister._

Phil nodded, swallowing the stab of hurt at Clint again pulling away from his touch. He signed a few words of reassurance, keeping his face impassive and hoping that the room was dark enough to hide what he knew his expression and eyes were telegraphing.

_We’ll find her. Promise._

____

The helicopter landing had been rough at best, and Zeg was in danger of becoming hideously annoyed. It had been a very _tedious_ several weeks. While they had, to a degree, enjoyed the company of a houseful of spies-- it was a group of their kind of people, afterall-- they missed their privacy. It had been much too long since they had been able to send Basil to his room and parade around the house in their altogether while listening to Nick in their ear as he rambled about his day and his agents and his frustrations and wishes. It had been longer still since he’d made them moan and writhe through nothing but the power of his voice and his imagination while they spread themself over the fur rug before the fire and brought themself to completion. 

Zeg had frowned at the building they were led to, vaguely remembering when they’d bought it and wondering when they had handed it over to their property manager to rent out. It had been purchased as a convenient location to keep an eye on unsavory shipments belonging to their competition and to clear a few slightly less unsavory shipments of their own (weapons and humans were despicable things to deal in, but luxury, restricted foods and money were just… _fun_ ). Being parked in the center of a large complex of warehouses that were rarely checked by authorities made the offices perfect for the job. The conference room they were seated in was just as they remembered it: barred windows, chintzy table, uncomfortable chairs, garish overhead lighting. The new additions were comprised of a single computer and a man with a goatee, a cheap suit, and an unholy fascination with Zeg’s exposed skin.

The longer the man tried to explain Zeg’s newest purchase, the more irritated they became. The engineer was a tedious sort of being to begin with, and he was clearly overwhelmed by Zeg’s mere presence. He kept losing track of his sentences while staring at Zeg’s bare breastbone and thigh, and couldn’t get to the end of a single thought without three _hmm_ s, two _ahhh_ s, and at least one gulp. 

In hopes of removing the distraction, Zeg reached up to pull the front of Jasper’s coat further around them, clutching the lapels tightly together. Their thumb brushed the bump of the in-ear comm unit in the inside pocket against their chest, and their eyes widened as they realized what it meant. They straightened, considering the hope offered in that tiny unit and wondering if there was a good way to get it to their ear or to at least reach in and activate it so SHIELD could track it. Track _them_. They leaned forward, shifting in their chair to let their skirt fall further closed over their knee.

“So it, ahhhh, hmm, well, it weaponizes very, errrr, small amounts of nuclear material, meaning that the, hmm, previously required quantity for one small bomb will make, hmmm, ahh, errrr, at least three warheads for this.” Zeg kept their eyes wide and expression vapid and encouraging. The man’s eyes immediately went to their lips, and Zeg irrationally wished for a jar of cold cream to either remove their lipstick or to rub in the man’s eyes to blind him.

“Which means you can get nuclear for less.” Quinn was watching them from several feet away, the computer separating him from where he’d perched Zeg on a hard plastic chair. The engineer, whose name Zeg hadn’t bothered to ask, was leaning against the edge of the table, pressing buttons to pull up schematics and formulae that meant nothing to Zeg’s untrained eye.

 _This is worse than Nick thought, then. But why the_ hell _were Brown and Richolt working on something so… so_ destructive _?_ Zeg didn’t glance over, but they were terribly conscious of their handbag lying on the far corner of the table. Quinn was standing too far away for Zeg to stab easily, and there was the ridiculously outsize monitor in front of him that would prevent most disabling hits from a thrown blade. In order to take him out from where they sat, Zeg would have to kill him. _Nick wanted to question him, though,_ they thought regretfully, smiling seductively when Quinn noticed them looking at him.

“But is such a small payload _effective_?” Zeg held Quinn’s gaze and slipped the jacket off their shoulders, draping it over their lap and smoothing it with steady hands. They had to try to coax Quinn closer, get him within touching range, to take him out without hurting him _too_ badly. “We will only make paltry sums on sales to minor rebel groups, and we do not deal in paltry. We wish to have the government contracts. To bring nations to their knees.”

“You can have multiple targets,” the engineer said, and Zeg could see him frown at them out of the corner of their eye. Clearly he didn’t appreciate losing their attention to the sleekly suited Ian Quinn. “And with Stark’s targeting systems onboard, you can coordinate an attack on one target from several directions at once. There’s no defense against them. They are capable of taking out an entire base with just two to three mini-missiles, and the operators don’t need to be anywhere like in range of danger.”

“So you see, there are many governments in the world that would pay a _premium_ for technology that will only belong to _you_.” Quinn stepped around the end of the table and walked to Zeg’s side, his hand reaching out to rest against their lower back as he leaned down to press a new command into the computer. “If that’s what you want.”

“We wish money, power, and fear.” Zeg pushed their hair back from their face and smiled up at him, cool and wicked.

“Waarzegster, I am beginning to wonder if we could, perhaps, make a better deal than this.” Quinn waved a hand to include the monitors, the weapons, and the plans Zeg was pretending to make to mass produce these evil little bombs. “I think that, if you and I were to team up, _personally_ , we might make a real dent in world security, and we could probably take the entire market away from Stark.”

“ _That_ sounds like an idea worth discussing, Mr. Quinn.” Zeg leaned into the pressure of his sweaty palm against their back and licked their bottom lip.

“Please, call me Ian.”

Zeg shifted again to show off a bit more leg, fingers clenching in the fabric of the jacket as if to ruck it out of the way. Their thumb slid into the top of the interior pocket.

“Of course. We would so love to know you… _better_.” Zeg mentally flinched at the particularly terrible line, comforting themself with the knowledge that _they_ , at least, understood they were thinking of knowing-- intimately-- all the places that would make Quinn double over and cry. “In a much more personal way.”

____

 

Phil’s eyes were understanding in the dimness of the room, and his hands were steady as he signed. Both of those things utterly failed to hide that Clint had hurt him by pulling away from his touch, and Clint felt like shit.

 _I’m_ sorry _, Phil. Fuck, I’m so sorry, but it’s Nat, and you’re too much of a distraction._ He always managed to fuck up the good things in his life, and here he was already fucking up Phil. They were supposed to have a few more hours. Clint forced himself not to sign an apology, knowing he’d never be able to explain. 

His legs felt like noodles. Basil’s evidence about the guards on the roof seemed to point to Nat at least being alive after the explosions, but there was no sign of where she’d gone from the fight, or if she’d been injured, or what her followup play would be. And Clint… Clint should have been with her, watching her back, knowing what her plans were, and knowing how best to support them. But he’d been so eager to partner up with Phil for this, and Nat had been left alone to watch _his_ back by taking out Quinn’s reinforcements. 

This was the last time Clint agreed to do any kind of guard duty for _any_ corporation. Seriously, a bunch of dicks with money wanted to fight over who owned the _intellectual rights_ to something designed for killing people, he was not going to stand in the way. Diplomatic assignments with someone’s dear old Mama who liked to cop a feel when he was standing outside their hotel room door were better than _this_ fucked up mess. At least then he’d have Natasha standing beside him (probably laughing at his face when he got goosed) and he wouldn’t be required to chase after some stupid pieces of paper and a USB drive for a year. He wouldn’t have to pretend to be some helpless little boy. And he wouldn’t be in danger of meeting the only perfect man in the entire world.

Well, that last one didn’t seem to be much of a danger, anymore, since they’d already met and Clint had already proven how little control he had over his own stupid heart.

Furthermore, Clint no longer gave a _shit_ about getting the plans back. Oh, he knew they would complete the mission. How could they not, with the Black Widow apparently still on the trail and with the Legendary Agent Coulson of SHIELD backing her up? But Clint was going to focus on getting Nat and getting out of there with her intact. If it came down to grabbing the loot or grabbing his partner, his partner was going to win every time. He just hoped Phil would understand if it came down to that. Natasha came first, no matter what tempted him to stray.

Clint watched Phil’s profile from the corner of his eye and felt a pang. 

_Yeahhh, that’s a helluva temptation._

And _Damn!_ Clint just wished he could take Phil with him. Back to the States. Back to his crap little loft that was barely big enough for two. Back to the bed that was already crowded when Natasha crawled in for comfort, knowing it would leave Clint smashed like the middle sardine, pressing Phil against his back from shoulder to toes when Nat felt needy. He wanted to take Phil on the next mission with himself and Nat. 

But Phil had SHIELD, and Phil had Hill and Sitwell, and probably dozens of other friends that Clint would never know about. Phil had a life that wasn’t lurching from one job to the next. He didn’t have to wait for the rare opportunity that someone needed his services _and_ could afford to pay his prices. Phil had expectations, responsibilities, a job he clearly found rewarding. A _real_ life.

Clint had Nat, and Nat had Clint.

And that was why, when the night was over, Clint would kiss Phil goodbye, hold him just a second longer than decent, and then make himself walk away. He loved Phil-- of _course_ he did. But he and Nat _needed_ each other. Still, walking away was going to suck. Clint was _fairly_ certain that someone with the sex appeal, the competence, the kindness, the job skills, and the overall _Phil-ness_ of Phil was a once in a lifetime deal. 

_At least I had it for a little while._

Sitwell came over from where he’d been overseeing a group dig through some of the debris. He had Clint’s bow in his hand, quiver dangling from his wrist, and a dimpled smile on his face.

“Make sure you keep both hands on your weapon, Barton.” He made certain to exaggerate his words, making his lips easy to read. And then his smile turned wicked. “Won’t do to go dropping things in the middle of an op.”

Clint reached out with trembling, reverent fingers to take take her, checking her arms and string more by feel than sight. He had to physically restrain himself from dragging Sitwell in by his necktie and planting one on him. Really, only the certain knowledge that it might hurt Phil and _would_ piss off Hill let him keep his mouth to himself, and, in lieu of bussing Sitwell, Clint pressed the smooth, inky purple varnish of his girl to his mouth.

“Thank you, Sit-- Jasper.” He did _not_ hug the bow. That thing that he did? It was just… gratefully examining her with his chest. He was not _actually_ hugging her. “Thank you. I’d have been lost without her.”

Phil’s head swung toward where Maria was sitting at a newly-righted table. Someone under Malene had gone down and collected SHIELD’s equipment, and Maria now had her single unbroken computer open in front of her. She was saying something to Phil, and he started to grin, his attention swinging back to Clint. 

_Natasha!_ Phil signed frantically, grin growing wider with every gesture. _In ear. Works!_

Clint wanted to grab Phil. Hug him. Hold him close and jump up and down like an over-excited four year old. But that would hinder Phil from signing to relay Nat’s message. For his part, Phil looked as relieved and giddy as Clint felt, and his happiness sent another jolt to Clint’s heart. Phil… _cared_ about Nat.

 _Rappelled off roof. Stole motorcycle. Followed helicopter, building Z owns. No guards, but yes visible surveillance. Tell Barton ass here to cover me. And bring his boy_ \-- Phil blushed in the dim light but his hands didn’t falter-- _to cover him. You all have forty-five and then I’m going in._

As soon as she signed off, Clint let go of his self-containment and swept Phil into his arms, kissing his perfect mouth while Maria collected Jasper and Basil and alerted Malene to the latest development. Phil kissed him back hard and then pushed him away and leaned down to collect his sidearm from where it had fallen as they’d both dropped through the ceiling. 

A heartbeat later, they were all racing through hallways and stumbling down stairs to get to the car for Basil to drive them across town to collect Zeg, the stolen plans, and Natasha.

____

Phil realized he was still holding onto Clint’s wrist when they arrived at the limo. He tried not to feel self-conscious, glad that they’d been bringing up the rear as they’d followed Basil (how _did_ a man of that size move so fast?) through the hotel. Jas and Mars were already in the car as Phil and Clint skidded to a halt, having been delayed at the start of the run by their momentary liplock. Phil’s brain screeched to a halt, and he took just a second to stare at Clint’s bottom lip before blinking hard and shoving him into the back of the car with Mars and Jas. He holstered his gun and sucked in a deep breath to try to get a grip on himself as he climbed in the passenger seat, up front with Basil; Phil needed the distance to settle his nerves. Hormones. Something.

“You okay, bro?” Basil asked him, one bushy eyebrow quirked as he started the car and nimbly maneuvered out from the narrow gap between a pair of gaudier limousines. Thinking back later, Phil would realize that the car was really fairly emblematic of Zeg: it only pretended to be flashy, while in reality it was practical at the core, primarily a tool to accomplish a task. In this case, Zeg needed something that would blend with their public person of Money, Luxury, and Greed.

“I’m fine, Basil.” Phil huffed a humorless laugh at the obviousness of the lie. _Fine_ didn’t encompass the sudden heat behind his eyes or the way his heart twinged painfully. Although the heart thing might just a side effect of getting older and running too far, too fast. He let his head thump back into the headrest. “Little confused, maybe, but fine.”

“Ehh, you’ll be okay, bro. We’ll be done here in a bit, once we catch up to Boss and Miss Romanov.” Basil grinned, mustache curling into a cheerful, bristly cloud beneath the lumpy nose that spoke of too many fights and a bad habit of leaving his face open. “After that, you and that man’ll be able to get some time to talk things out. Everything’ll be just fine, bro. It’ll all work out.”

Phil was willing to accept that the mission might be that straight-forward, particularly since Waarzegster and the Black Widow were apparently already on scene. He half expected his in-ear to come to life with word that the plans were secure and Quinn was hogtied with a half-dozen hired goons, two accountants, and an international banker alongside him, and that everyone was ready to testify. Phil shivered at the thought of those two teaming up permanently. If they had Basil and Clint with them as muscle, well, SHIELD could hope they stayed on the side of angels, because there would be no taking them down.

As for talking things out with Clint…

There was no way to work it out. If there was a solution, Phil was sure he’d have found it. As it was, he still felt a pull that told him to chuck his career and run away to turn the duo of mercenaries into a trio. If he was ten years younger, he’d do it. But that kind of life wasn’t usually kind to men of his age. Sleeping rough still happened in his line of work, but he had more nights on an actual mattress than he’d had in the early years with the Rangers and the only slightly later years with SHIELD. He’d worked his way up to a reasonably comfortable existence, and, with the slow accruement of injuries, _comfort_ had become an increasingly reasonable goal. And while, for Clint, he’d give it up, he knew that meant they wouldn’t have time together. That Phil’s exhaustion would likely be responsible for one or both of them dying, eventually.

Phil as a merc didn’t paint the prettiest of pictures for either of them.

Besides, Phil was old enough, wise enough, and sad enough to understand that this _thing_ he and Clint shared was already over. The last kiss they’d shared had obviously been fueled by Clint’s relief at finding out that Nat was alive, well, and still fully intent on kicking someone’s ass. In reality, the relationship had ended as soon as they’d left the closet, pausing just inside the door for one more kiss, softer and more tender than any they’d exchanged yet. It had tasted of goodbye.

A flare of grief swamped Phil at the memory of that closet., of what had happened behind that closed door. Phil shifted uncomfortably, crossing and uncrossing his legs at the tightness in his lower back. Recalling the reason for that strain, heat swelled in Phil’s belly and he took a slow, deep breath to keep from outright moaning.

_Not the time to think about that, Coulson. Get a grip._

He gave himself permission to wallow in his _feelings_ and to dwell on the puzzle that was the incredible man in the backseat with Phil’s best friends, but only for the length of the ride. Just a few minutes to sink in his own head and picture Anton’s sparkling eyes and wicked, star-struck face from the first time they’d met, the instant rapport and tidal wave of just _everything_ that followed. He tracked the path on the back of his eyelids, breathing steadily to keep from raising his heartbeat.

With the danger and separation that lay before them, Clint’s sudden withdrawal was understandable, no matter how deeply it stung. However-- Phil’s eyes snapped open at the thought-- maybe _this_ was the truth of Clint’s feelings. Maybe he’d just been caught up in the moment, in Phil’s emotions. Maybe he’d been playing along, just in case it was necessary to earn the ride home he so clearly desired.

_No._

Phil would _not_ be so disrespectful as to believe that. Clint had too much self-awareness to be able to fool himself into some semblance of feeling where none existed. And he wouldn’t bother trying for someone like Phil, who was nothing special compared to the golden beauty that was Clint Barton. What they’d shared over the past month was real, had _been_ real, from the very first moment they’d seen one another. It had blazed like lightning, but had settled into a hot, slow burn, that wasn’t anywhere _near_ to running out of fuel.

Phil huffed a sigh and let his head tilt sideways to thump against the window. He wanted, in equal parts, to dwell on every word and look and touch they had exchanged, and also wanted to push it all away until he was home, safe and-- by preference-- drunk in that little dive bar, sandwiched in the rounded booth between Maria’s bony-stiff hugs and Jasper’s sarcastic but heartfelt empathy.

“We’re here, bro.” Basil’s congenial rumble pulled Phil out of his head and back to the task at hand. 

The car was tucked in an alley-like space between a pair of soaring warehouses, much like every cargo yard the world over. Phil quickly scanned the surrounding buildings, not trusting them to be as empty as they appeared, because _no one_ left that many storage facilities unattended at night. Ever. Basil pointed to a slim, flame-haired figure standing at the opposite end of a long lane, between a rotting warehouse-like building and a low, more modern-looking building that looked less like offices and more like a storefront. 

“Drove as fast as I could, but we’re still a little late, so it looks like Miss Natasha is going in without us. Skipping the geo-graphy lesson for now, suffice it to say it was further out here than I remembered it being.” Basil shrugged apologetically and then grinned. “Guess we better hurry up before there’s no one left to hit, bro.”

____

Zeg’s thumbnail brushed the switch on the side of the comm unit-- once, twice-- and then caught enough to flip it to on. Their hand clenched in relief, crumpling the lapel of the jacket that lay across their lap. Well, they’d have it cleaned before they gave it back to Jas. Or maybe they would simply replace the entire suit. Something bespoke. And bullet resistant. A thank you for having given his jacket up so easily. For being such a _useful_ accomplice. For taking the flirting the two of them had engaged in as nothing but playful and meaningless. 

Unlike Quinn. _Ian_ , rather. Zeg barely refrained from rolling their eyes. As if they would ever _dream_ of becoming friendly with such a man, even if no one had a prior claim to them. As if a slimy creature that thought new money made up for a lack of breeding and a well-cut suit could hide the weakness of his chin could _ever_ turn their head. _As if_ they would be attracted to someone so far up his own backside as to imagine that manipulation was flattery and that, in this business, flirtation was more than a means to an end.

“So, Zeg,” Quinn leaned around Zeg’s side, his hands reaching to pull the jacket out of their hands. He brushed his hand over the lapel with a distasteful grimace and dropped the offending garment on the table before reaching for their wrist and pulling them to their feet. “What do you say, darling? Do we have a deal?”

Zeg turned toward him, folding themself into his personal space, letting their hand come up to rest on his shoulder, primarily as a way to maintain some space. They licked their bottom lip, watching Quinn’s focus sharply on the movement. While he was so distracted, they slowly began to slide the fingers of their free hand into the slit in their skirt, reaching for the knife secured on their inner thigh by a red satin garter.

“And how do we know you won’t try to resell these plans from underneath us, once you have what you want from us?” They shifted slightly, trying to get another inch’s reach under their dress without being obvious. Catching their bottom lip between their teeth kept Quinn’s eyes on their face. One fingertip brushed the skin-warmed ceramic of the blade that rested against their thigh, and they turned further into Quinn’s chest to keep their elbow from further banging into Quinn’s belly and alert him to what they were doing.

“Because the designs for the firing mechanism exist _only_ on paper, and those will stay in your _personal_ possession.” Quinn leaned forward, stretching himself to his full height and straining upward to reach for Zeg’s painted lips with his own chapped mouth. “Do we have a deal, beautiful?”

Three things happened nearly in tandem:

First, Zeg’s hand slid far enough to clutch the knife between finger and thumb, and they shifted their weight to their back foot, ready to bring it up to his throat and demand that Quinn keep his martini-flavored mouth to himself. And hand over his files, the hard-copy designs, and himself while he’s at it.

Second, Quinn flung his other arm around the back of Zeg’s neck and pulled, smashing them to his chest and effectively pinning their arm between their bodies as his mouth covered theirs. Zeg froze, shocked, brain too offline for the moment to begin to wiggle free. There was generally a _little_ more leadup to a kiss, but trust Quinn to lose control early. 

Zeg later wondered if that was a metaphor. 

Third, a handful of heartbeats after the initiation of The Kiss, the door burst open to admit a pair of black-dressed guards from Quinn-alone-knew where; Zeg hadn’t noticed anyone in the immediate surroundings as they’d been led across the compound of warehouses, but they weren’t so naive as to believe the guards hadn’t been there. The two men between them dragged a bruised, tangle-haired, bleeding-lipped Natasha who bucked against their grip, twisting and spitting like a cat as she hissed out curses in Russian.

“What the f--” Quinn pulled back, shoving Zeg away from him as he drew a gun from somewhere under his expensively-cut suitcoat. 

“Who the hell is this?” Quinn took another step away from Zeg, and they took the opportunity to fully draw their knife, keeping the movement smooth to avoid attracting attention. The curved back edge fit neatly into their palm. “What’s she doing here?” He lifted his gun and aimed it straight at Natasha’s chest. “How did you find this place?”

“Am I really so forgettable, Quinn?” Natasha glanced at the gun with exaggerated indifference. “I’m here to check up on those plans you stole out from under my nose, of course.” Zeg could see the crackle of tension in her body, despite the evenness of her tone and gaze, and knew that Quinn could probably see it too. “I lo-jacked your high bidder there.”

Quinn’s brow creased in confusion, and he glanced sideways at Zeg, clearly asking if they were privy to the planting of said tracker. Zeg gave up, patience with the whole game finally wearing out. They’d planned to draw the sale out longer, tease as much information out of Quinn as they could get, but clearly, Quinn didn’t have the restraint to allow them to do so.

“Oh thank _fuck_.” Nick had been at the forefront of Zeg’s mind for so long that night that his vocabulary and cadence slipped easily out of Zeg’s lips. “We were afraid we’d actually have to _kiss_ him.” 

They hiked their skirt out of the way and spun, neatly kicking Quinn’s wrist to deflect the muzzle of the gun away from Natasha just as he pulled the trigger. The engineer fell out of his chair with a rat-like squeal of fear, and Zeg did not roll their eyes, no matter how desperately they longed to; Quinn, with all his money, apparently couldn’t buy decent help. _Worthless!_

Natasha was moving before Zeg’s foot had made contact, using the leverage from the man holding her right arm to kick the man on her left in the face before she spun through the air. Her shapely, _deadly_ thighs wrapped around the head of her remaining guard and she rode him down as he fell limply to the hard tile floor. Natasha zapped them each once with her Widow’s Bites before she extracted herself from the heap of defeated goons. 

“Now, Mr. Quinn.” Zeg straightened from where they’d leaned down to collect the gun he’d dropped, slipping the knife back into the garter one-handed. “We _do_ believe it’s time you give us those plans, before anything else happens to you.”

Quinn cradled his injured wrist against his chest, mouth opening and closing silently, fishlike as he backed away. Too late, Zeg realized his retreat was strategic and not cowardice, but before they could react, he’d reached the computers, kicking the heap of shivering engineer aside and pressing a single key. 

The ground shook with the resulting explosion, and everyone in the room was thrown off their feet.

 _God_ damn _this man and his bombs!_ Zeg felt the gun fall away and the sharp sting of a gash opening on the delicate skin of their creamy thigh under their knife, and then the world went blissfully dark and quiet. For a moment.

____

 _Take! Take!_ Phil repeated the grasping sign and then impatiently flapped his hand at Clint. An in-ear comm lay on his other palm. Clint lifted it carefully, ignoring the way his fingertips tingled from contact with Phil’s skin, and tucked it in his ear. _You can talk at us. We can search you._

_Babe, you said that like a three year old._ Clint grinned as Phil’s ears pinked in the washed-out light of the nearest streetlamp. In reply, Phil lifted his middle finger in a less toddler-like gesture, startling a laugh out of Clint. God, the perfection of this man!

“If we get time after, Phil,” Clint said, trying to pitch his voice low as he caught Phil’s cuff to keep him from turning away. “If we get time after this, I’d love to take you up on that suggestion one more time.”

Phil’s eyes flickered over Clint’s face hungrily, and Clint could all but _feel_ his own pupils widen in response. They were just a hundred yards from where Phil had seen Natasha jimmy a lock and duck into the back of a building, but, for all Clint could remember at that moment, the mission was worlds away. Something in Clint’s chest cracked open, heat and grief and incipient loss making him choke, but he couldn’t look away from Phil’s hungry, desperate, understanding eyes.

“Will you two quit flirting, already?” Sitwell roughly shoved between the two of them, breaking them out of their staring competition. Clint imitated Phil’s last sign from before and then froze, a grin splitting his face.He’d heard the words-- quite clearly, too-- through his comm.

“Hey, these things are awesome!” Clint pointed to his ear, and Hill grinned at him as she grabbed Clint’s bicep in one and Phil’s in the other.

“We get all the wonderful toys.” She shoved them both forward, following Jasper. “Now let’s get in there.”

Heading into a mission with skilled agents was novel; he might not trust SHIELD to have his back all the time, but he did trust their situational awareness. And, whatever he thought of SHIELD, Clint trusted Phil to have his back, Jasper and Maria to have Phil’s, and Basil to simply bull his way through anything that stood between him and his Boss.

With half the distance covered and no sign of resistance yet, Phil took point, gun out and jaw set, shoulders tight under the broad spread of his jacket. Clint prowled along just behind Phil’s shoulder, arrow drawn, eyes alert for any movement. Hill flanked Phil on the other side, her own service weapon level and held with steady hands, face serious and eyes constantly tracking for danger. Jasper was at her heels, all traces of the goofy, amiable facade he’d worn at the reception gone, replaced with a sharp gaze that missed no detail of the alley and a set jaw that promised efficient violence against anyone that got in his way. Basil brought up the rear, his lumbering gate somehow tighter and more contained, shifting his whole demeanor from that of a lazy walrus to a killer whale stalking seals.

Twenty feet from the back door of the building that was their goal, the warehouse on the far side exploded in a ball of oily fire.

Clint’s arrow flew into the sky as Phil crashed against his arm and they both together stumbled back into Basil. Maria dove for the ground, and out of the corner of his eye Clint watched Jasper launch himself forward to offer her the cover of his surprisingly blocky shoulders.

 _This blowing up thing is getting very old_ , Clint thought. He swung his bow wide to give Phil plenty of his chest to land against as they fell.

____

 

Nat was the first to regain her feet after the blast. The concussion had knocked out the power in the room and the room was lit only by the sooty-orange glow that glared through the windows. Nat shoved herself to her feet, blinking around to clear the spots in front of her eyes, watching the fire roar through the gaping windows just across a narrow lane.

 _At least he blew up a building we_ weren’t _in, this time._ She shook off her momentary daze, freeing herself from the hypnotism of the fire, and dove across the floor to where Zeg lay, sprawled like a thrown doll with a monitor from the computer on one ankle. Nat lifted their wrist, fingers efficiently checking for a pulse, and huffed a sigh of relief as she felt it. Dropping Zeg’s limp hand, Nat looked up, trying to locate Quinn and his weasely associate. 

“Agent Hill? Hawkeye? Coulson? Do you read me?” Nat shoved the monitor away from Zeg’s leg, feeling carefully for broken bones. “Waarzegster is down, and--”

Something came down on her shoulder, knocking her to the floor and cutting off the rest of her words.

____

 

“Nat!” Clint’s panicked shout-- in a weird stereo as it came over the comm in one of Phil’s ears and was screamed directly into the other-- forced Phil out of his daze. “Widow! Do you read?”

Phil rolled to his feet with only a momentary pang at leaving the comfort and security of Clint’s loose embrace. He held Clint’s wrist as he rose, dragging Clint up behind him, and turned just in time to see Jas and Mars together heaving Basil to his feet. They all seemed to be mostly in one piece, and Phil collected his pistol from the pavement, giving it a cursory check. He turned to run toward the door that now stood ajar, hurrying to get out of the falling ash, glad when the pattern of footsteps behind him indicated the entire team was following. 

The air was heavy with smoke, coating everything with an oily residue: Phil could taste it in his mouth, his throat, on his teeth. It made his lungs scream, and he coughed as he ran, choking as the smoke got thicker the nearer he made it to the door that was his goal. He would have cheered when his fingers closed on the edge of the door in preparation of pulling it wider, if he’d had any air left.

A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind, yanking him off of his feet a second before the door flung open in his face and the first man out took an arrow to the throat.  
____

Zeg opened their eyes in Hell. 

Well, it was one explanation; the view fit the description. If Zeg had believed in Hell, of course. And if they didn’t have such clear memories of how they’d come to be lying on the ground in a ballgown. 

Someday, they would be wearing shoes with laces and actual trousers to one of those damned events, and then they would have pockets to carry useful things like guns and knives and maybe a set of brass knuckles to beat a man to death before he could press keys on a computer and _blow things up._

The sun was going to rise in the west, too.

Their ankle throbbed in a way that promised horrific bruising and a lack of most of their favorite footwear for several weeks, and there was a knot on the back of their head that caught their breath when it brushed against the cheap tiles as they turned their neck to examine their surroundings. The room was ablaze with flickering light, more black than red, and the crackle of the blaze penetrated, as did the heat. One arm moved easily and the other... 

Turning their head, they found their arm was not damaged, only pinned beneath the limp form of Natasha where Ian Quinn stood over her with a chair in hand. He threw it aside when he noticed them looking.

“Ah, back with me, I see.” He stepped over them before squatting down, one foot on their free wrist. Zeg tried to twist away, but their shoulder was too strained for them to gain any traction, and pain flared up their leg when they tried to brace their feet. “I was hoping you’d wake up before I left.”

“I think this building is on fire, too, Mr. Quinn.” A snivelling voice from the corner of the room interrupted him, and Zeg spared a moment to be astonished that the little rat hadn’t already tried to run.

“Yes, _thank_ you, Doctor. That was always a possibility.” Quinn smiled down at Zeg. “But I had to get rid of the prototypes, you see. They were stored over there. I was going to take you to see them, later on.” 

He reached down to smooth their hair back from their face. Zeg wanted to recoil from his touch, but he had them too pinned for that. Besides, now that he’d started talking, they weren’t yet ready twist themself free of Natasha or his foot. Just a few more minutes, and they were likely to get all the information they needed. 

“So I gather from the names your Black Widow was calling for help that you’re working with SHIELD.” Quinn stroked their hair again, and Zeg forced themself not to spit on him. He’d pay for daring to touch them, in due time. “That’s not really your style, Zeg. Can I call you Zeg? So much easier than that tongue-tangler you usually go by.”

He stroked one fingertip down the bridge of their nose, but Zeg refused to cross their eyes to follow the track, stubbornly glaring him down. For one moment, their still-scrambled mind imagined that the reflected red in his eyes was actually an internal glow. They shivered, tugging at their arm, instinctively trying to get away, a superstition-filled childhood spilling into their middle years as if it had never gone. Quinn’s expensive cobblery pressed down harder, and Zeg cringed, feeling the bones of their wrist grind together under the smooth leather sole. 

“I think you should stay put, beautiful.” His fingers traced over their cheekbone. “Just long enough to listen to the choice I have for you, yes? You see, you have something I want. Several things, in fact. I want access to your information, your contacts, and your funding.”

“Your fortune surpasses our own,” Zeg answered haughtily. They were impressed and amused to find that they could still manage haughty while sprawling on the floor, skirt disarranged, an unconscious assassin on one arm and a douchebag billionaire on the other. “You have contacts far more legitimate than ours. So what information can you not wheedle from your _friends_ or buy from your enemies?”

“See, that’s the thing though, Zeg.” He drawled the diminutive, and Zeg tasted bile. “My _fortune_ can be traced. So very much of it can be tracked right back to me. There’s so few ways legitimate money can easily hide. Same with my contacts. They’re _too_ government-y. I hope you realize by now that I staged this whole little show for your benefit.” Quinn’s questing fingers trailed down the side of their neck and tracked across the ridge of their collarbone. “I will admit that, having seen you, my interest isn’t _only_ in your money. I really _would_ like to take you to bed. You do see that I’m trying to woo you, right? How’m I doing?”

And really, that was all end of what they could stomach.

“I’m spoken for.” Zeg snapped. “So keep your greasy, limp little--” they paused just long enough to be noticeable-- “ _hands_ to yourself!” 

Zeg braced their shoulders back against the floor and twisted, smashing their uninjured foot against the side of Quinn’s smug little smirk. _Modesty be damned!_ They flipped their skirt off of their legs and rolled to their feet, refusing to flinch at the white-hot bolt of pain that boiled up from toes to lower spine.

A crackle of gunfire outside the window startled a flinch out of Zeg, and they were privately willing to admit that it was _probably_ a sign that the shock of a possibly-broken bone was catching up to them. Time to wrap things up.

“You _bitch_!” Quinn backed away from them, hand going up to cover the blood that flowed from his split lip. Worthless really; the tie it was staining was no great sartorial loss. 

“Only when we’re wearing a gown, Mister Quinn.” Their knife was already freed from their garter, blood-slick against their fingers. Even as their hand came up, however, Quinn had lifted his gun, firing it twice. Zeg’s knife thumped into the wall, three feet from where they’d been aiming, and a mile too wide to bury itself in Quinn’s belly. Zeg somehow missed several seconds of seconds of time, thinking they had blinked but finding themself facing nothing where Quinn had been standing a moment before.

“We could have been _so good_ together.” Quinn said from the doorway, one hand clamped on the shoulder of the engineer, pushing him into the hall. “Ah well. Au revoir, Zeg.”

Quinn seemed to flicker and vanish in another loud _BANG!_. 

Breathless now, Zeg looked down to see a dark wet patch spreading on the side of their dress and blood dripping from their hand. The tacky feeling of blood spread from their garter and down their shin. So _very_ much blood seemed to be coming out of so _very_ many places. There wasn’t time to stand there, though. They were supposed to give chase, stop Quinn from… They had to stop Quinn. They could stop Quinn if they…

“But w-w-we didn’t _feel_ any b-b-bullets.” Zeg’s teeth began to chatter, and they reached down with their unbloodied hand to touch the hole just above the point of their hip. “I believe he’s ruined this gown.” 

“Waarzegster!” Natasha wavered into existence at Zeg’s side, one hand sliding around their forearm and squeezing hard . “Zeg! Come on! We’ve got to get out of here. The fire’s spreading.”

The shock of pain as her fingers covered the wounds on each side Zeg’s arm cleared their head a moment, and they squinted across the room

“Not without that computer,” they said stubbornly, setting their jaw and trying to force themself to remain upright. “There is enough on that computer for someone to recreate most of those wicked little missiles and maybe find out who built them and how to stop them.” 

Zeg took a step toward the table, but their injured ankle buckled, and the stumble that followed sizzled up their torso from their hip. They tried to force back the sparkles that rose up in front of their eyes, but the sparkles wrapped together, solidifying until they became Nick’s stern face and warm eye, and they gave in to the need for respite and fell toward him, trusting that he would catch them.

Natasha didn’t think to tell them later, but they would have been relieved to know their collapse was as elegant as every other movement they usually made.

____

There wasn’t time to _think_ when the dull reflection of firelight on gunmetal appeared in the gap of the door, just inches from Phil’s fingertips. All Clint could do was react, catching Phil by the shoulder and throwing him to the ground, just _praying_ there was enough time to get his arrow back on the string in time to take out the ambush. His shot was right-handed and sloppy as hell, but effective, burying itself in the throat of the first man through the door. He flung himself down, spreading himself wide over Phil as the business end of a hefty black Sig led the next man into the alley. 

_POPPOPPOP_

Rather than the single shot to the skull that Clint was expecting, the rapid, triple-report of a government-trained gunslinger that echoed off the nearby buildings, and the guard with the gun dropped in the doorway. The response to the guard’s death came, quick and terrifying, in the form of a hail of bullets came from behind the team. Clint found himself dragged to his feet by Basil’s meaty hand, herded forward toward cover. The muzzle of Sitwell’s pistol was still smoking as he and Hill ducked through the door first, shoulder to shoulder, guns leveled to clear any threats beyond. Immediately inside, they spread out to make room for the rest of the team to follow. Clint hauled Phil up to his feet, pushing him ahead to the dubious safety of an office building that contained who-knew-how-many hostiles, Waarzegster, and the Black Widow. 

Phil and Clint stumbled over the two dead guards nearly together, with Basil so close behind that Clint imagined he felt the phantom brush of a walrus-bristle mustache on the back of his head. Once inside, Basil braved being shot one last time to kick the bodies into the alley and grab the door, pulling it shut with a final-sounding slam. He clicked on a tiny flashlight and studied the latch for a moment, then shrugged his massive shoulders and twisted until it warped with a squeal. Not satisfied, he kept twisting until it snapped entirely off the door. 

“‘At should keep ‘em out there until we’re done in here.” He shrugged again before turning off the light and stuffing it back in the pocket of his shapeless khaki cargo pants. “Unless they come through the front door. So we should hurry up and get Boss and find another way out, in case they get bored of waiting on us to come back out.”

Clint nocked another arrow and swung his bow lightly from side to side, not yet drawing, but tensed to fire should a target present itself. The roar and crackle of the warehouse fire was muted inside the hallway, but still loud enough to muffle all noises more than a few feet away. The building was dark inside, but the red glow of the enferno outside cast a very dim, eerie glow from two doorways toward the left. 

“So which way do we go first?” Clint asked, struggling to be aware of how much air he was pushing across his vocal chords. The in-ear might have helped him hear the rest of the team, but it was shit for gauging his own voice.

“I can’t see a damn thing in here,” Sitwell complained in a growl. “Too fucking dark.”

“Hallways extend about sixty feet in each direction.” Clint murmured. “Three doorways to the left, two with windows to the outside, judging by the light from them. One appears to open into a hall. To the right, there are four more doorways, two of them possibly contain exterior windows, two that either don’t or have closed doors.”

“How the _hell_ can you get that much detail?” Sitwell sounded slightly awed. 

“Hawkeye.” Clint smirked and wriggled gently, aware that he was showing off and smug to be appreciated. “So which way do we go.”

A penlight flicked on, held in Maria’s hand. It offered just enough light for Clint to track the quick glance making the rounds between Phil, Sitwell, and Hill, before they all grinned at each other and each of them lifted a clenched fist.

_Bounce. Bounce. Bounce._

Sitwell was out with scissors to the rocks extended by both of the other two. 

_Bounce. Bounce. Lift--_

Two echoing shots blared down the hall, and Phil and Hill lifted their service weapons and spun in the direction of the reports. Two figures appeared in the doorway, and Clint’s bow came up, fingers tightening on the string in an instant. Before he could draw a bead on either target, there was the glare of muzzle-flash in the dark, and Sitwell stumbled heavily into Clint’s arm. 

Someone, presumably Ian Quinn, shouted something down the hall, but the crackle of the fire was growing louder, and Natasha’s voice came back onto the comms. Between his relief at hearing her again and the adrenaline spike at the tension and fear in her tone, Clint didn’t even try to make out what the person ahead was saying.

“Widow? You okay?” Clint took a step back, jostling against Hill who was kneeling in the floor, hands frantically skimming Sitwell’s body. “Nat?”

“... I’m trying… Waarzeg--” She fell silent mid-word, but it probably didn’t matter. With so many voices on the comm, Clint couldn’t make out much of anything anyone was saying.

He kept one eye on the shadows at the end of the hall and the other on Phil’s straight, solid shoulders, watching for a change in his tension or stance that would indicate Clint needed to loose his arrow to keep any more bullets from flying in the narrow space. 

A sudden brilliant flash of light robbed Clint of his sight, and the small explosion that followed drove everyone but Clint to covering their ears. The high-pitched squeal that followed forced him to yank out the comm and shove it in his pocket with a heavy sigh. Hearing a bit had been fun while it lasted. Through the tracers that floated in front of his eyes, Clint could just make out two shadowy figures running toward them down the hall, angling off at the last minute to dart down the hallway that ran, presumably, toward the front of the building.

A shout echoed down the hall that Clint would know _anywhere_ , deaf or not. As he raced down the hall, the dim glow from the room Quinn had exited grew brighter with a flickering, orange-red light, and Clint picked up the pace. Phil was so close to his side that their shoulders brushed as they ran. Behind them, Basil's sea lion roar called out, but Clint couldn’t make out the words. Whatever he said, however, made Phil stumble, and Clint’s hand shot out to catch his elbow automatically, keeping them both upright.

In the dim light, he could just see Phil making a frantic pointing gesture. 

_Go! Go!_

Clint went.  
____

“They’re trying to break down the door!” Basil’s bellow threw off Phil’s stride, and he stumbled.

Phil’s instincts went to war, half of him wanting to go forward with Clint, get to Natasha, check on Zeg, see how fucked the mission had become. The other half demanded he turn back to cover Maria while she tried to help Jasper. Maria had dropped beside Jasper soon as he'd gone down. Moment’s later, her hand had closed around Coulson’s ankle in a pattern of squeezes that indicated Jasper was still breathing. He’d been ready to respond when the flash-bang emp had taken out the comms and left him temporarily blind.

Goddamn Ian Fucking Quinn. At least, Phil was assuming it was Quinn. The man looked more or less Quinn-shaped in the darkness, and he’d sounded like Quinn. Without a postitive ID, however, the general assumption that it had been Quinn was not enough. Not enough evidence against someone so powerful, and there was no way to go bursting into any of the man’s US offices and slap handcuffs on him, sadly. Phil’s instict _was_ enough to let Fury know that Quinn would need watching.

“Get Boss, bros!” Basil shouted, his voice muffled through Phil’s still-ringing ears. “I got your agents, Agent Coulson.” 

Clint and Phil raced down the hall toward the door Quinn had exited, freezing momentarily as they looked in on what had previously been a conference room, but was now a fiery hell. Natasha was crouched beside Waarzegster, hands the inky black with blood by firelight where they were pressed over Zeg’s hip. Behind her blazed the remains of a table, and, even as Phil watched, the rubble of an exploded computer slowly sank as the tabletop cracked and caved, tumbling to the floor. Embers rolled toward Natasha’s thigh, and Phil quit thinking and just _moved_.

“I don’t have enough hands to stop the bleeding.” Natasha looked up with wide, worried eyes as Phil dropped into a crouch in front of her and Clint went around to stomp out the nearest embers. “Quinn, he shot Zeg, and then I guess he detonated the computer that had the plans on it, and…”

Phil’s jacket was quickly sacrificed to make a pad to press against the bleeding bullethole just above Zeg’s hip. Clint dropped to Nat’s side and her shoulders straightened, jaw setting as soon as he bumped his arm against hers. He reached down, pulling open his shirt even as Phil started to remove his shoulder holster to release his own shirt. Natasha accepted the wad of fabric from Clint first and began winding it around Zeg’s forearm, twisting it firmly with gentle fingers until she could knot the sleeves to hold as a tight bandage. Phil took a deep breath, lifting Zeg’s skirt aside to see where the dried blood down Zeg’s calf had come from, then wrapped his shirt around the gash he found on their thigh. He looked across their limp body to Natasha.

“Hawkeye on point, I’ll come next with them, and you cover our backs, okay?” He waited for her tight not of acceptance. “Hold this in place while I put my holster back on. Do you have a gun?”

“The guards stripped them when the caught me in the hall,” she answered, nodding toward the two limp forms near the doorway that were just beginning to stir. She fished in a pocket with one hand, coming up with a handful of rip-ties that she sprinkled onto Phil’s waiting palm, and then she returned the pressure to Zeg’s hip.

 _Goddamnit._ Phil crawled across toward them, trying to stay out of the smoke. He swiftly checked them both for weapons before rolling them onto their stomachs and securing their arms behind their backs. Clint had arrived as his side by the time he was slapping them both firmly to wake them up.

“I hope you’re both bright enough to cooperate to keep from dying an incredibly painful death,” Phil told them both, waggling the butt of his gun while keeping the business end aimed in their general direction. Clint rolled to a crouch, naked torso gleaming with heat and firelight, and Phil forced himself to keep paying attention to their captives. “Just walk along nicely, and I won’t feel the need to leave you in here.”

They both nodded, wide-eyed, and Phil crawled back to Natasha to hand her his gun and to gather Zeg’s rangy limbs into his arms. They weighed little, feeling much like a fragile kind of large bird in his arms, and Phil hoped they were okay. He didn’t want to be the one to tell Fury that Zeg hadn’t made it out.

“Smoke’s getting too thick in here, Coulson,” Clint said on a cough. “We gotta move now.”

He and Nat each assisted a guard to their feet, shoving them toward the hall, and Phil braced himself and hefted. For all that Zeg was built like a scarecrow, they carried a surprising load of muscle, and the length of them made for awkward carrying. Phil tucked them as securely against his chest as he could, mentally apologizing for any pain he caused them as he stumbled through the doorway behind Clint.

“Hurry it up!” Maria called from further down the hall. In the light of the glowing fire, Phil could see that she was standing in front of the hallway Quinn had vanished down earlier with Basil behind her, cradling Jasper easily in his massive arms. “Basil finished breaking the door, so no one’s getting in that way, but we’re not getting _out_ that way, either.”

Phil kept his opinion that there didn’t seem much way at all for them to get out to himself and followed Natasha and her guard into the darker hallway toward the glow of firelight at the other end. Maria swung in beside her, prodding the man Clint had been covering before her, and Basil stalked along after them, glancing down at Zeg in Phil’s arms once.

“They’re still breathing, Basil.” Phil told him gently as he could manage with his throat raw from the smoke. 

“Boss’ll be okay. They’re tough.” Basil sounded more wistful than reassured, however, and Phil wished he could pat the man on the shoulder.

Clint was the one to do so, reaching up high to offer reassurance before nocking another arrow. His bare chest flexed in the dim, flickering light, arms swelling as he drew, gesturing with the arrow for Phil to go in front of him, and Phil swallowed down a sigh.

He’d suddenly had a surge of belief that they actually _could_ get out of this mess alive, if only because he’d never felt as safe as he did right that moment with Clint “Hawkeye” Barton, The World’s Greatest Marksman, watching his back.

The sigh was because he knew it was a one-time deal, and he was already starting to miss the beauty and strength and joy that was Clint.

____

Clint was glad for the dark of that hallway that kept him from staring at Phil’s nearly naked back, shoulders and arms straining under limp Zeg’s weight. Not that _not_ being able to see actually helped all that much: Clint had seen Phil’s back reflected in the mirror that lined the wall behind the sink in Zeg’s opulent guest bath. Clint had felt it straining under his palms, against his fingertips while Phil had pinned him to a mattress or against the wall. Clint had pressed kisses to every ridge of muscle, had spent several minutes worrying a bruise onto the point of one shoulderblade, just because he’d wanted to leave a mark to show he’d been there.

The addition of the smooth leather straps of a shoulder holster was just gilding the lily. 

It took all Clint’s willpower not to whine aloud. If he got lost thinking of Phil, of having Phil and losing him, of making love to Phil and the lonely nights that were to come, he’d never survive the night. And that… wasn’t actually preferable. First off, if Clint were to get himself killed, he wouldn’t be there to watch Phil’s back for the rest of this mission and Natasha’s back for the rest of her life. Secondly, trying to stay alive was too deeply ingrained in Clint; he’d only once been low enough not to fight back, and, for him, that was really saying something. Finally, if Clint _were_ to die, Phil would blame himself. He was just that kind of a guy: someone on his team biting it equalled all his fault. 

Phil would be hurt enough by Clint leaving him, flying away home to New York with Natasha, leaving Phil to go back to… wherever he lived. Probably like DC or some super secret base in the middle of Antarctica or Kansas or something. Anyway, the point is that Phil would be sad, and Clint wasn’t going to die and make Phil feel guilty. _Couldn’t_ do that to him. Clint needed Phil to remember him warmly, as something good that had happened to him. And, given that he hadn’t been able to extract a promise from Phil that he’d go on to find someone else to love him like he deserved, Clint was going to make damned sure that Phil at least knew there was one living person in the world that loved him. 

It wasn’t much, but it was all Clint had to offer.

The hallway opened into a tiny lobby that held only a couple of chairs and a small shabby desk. Metal shutters covered the windows and the glass of the door, leaving the room dark and shadowed. Clint wished once, fervently, that he could hear what the others were saying. With Phil’s hands full of unconscious information broker and Natasha’s hands each wrapped around the grip of a gun that seemed enormous in her dainty hands, there was no one left to translate for him. It seemed a pity to miss it, since Maria was menacing their two captives, and, whatever she was saying had them nodding solemnly and answering “yes yes yes” over and over again.

Nat pressed her shoulder to the door, her face grimly satisfied in the light that was let in as it moved. She waved for Clint to join her, and he took his place across from her. They watched each other’s eyes for the space of two deep breaths. They exchanged no signal, but Clint was still ready when Nat shoved hard on the door, swinging it wide to give him an unobstructed view of the street. Not that there was anything important to see; all his questions about hostiles were answered when the bullets started spraying. Clint released his arrow, nocked, drew, and released again. And again. And then Nat’s questing hand caught the handle and she slammed the door shut hard.

Clint turned at a bump on his arm to find Phil standing beside him. Phil gestured behind him, indicating Zeg tucked carefully out of the line of fire and then gestured to the pistol in his holster and pointed to the door.

 _How many?_ Phil’s signs were tight and crisp when Clint could get his eyes detached from the leather strap caressing the bare skin of Phil’s shoulder to see what his hands were saying.

Clint shrugged once, eloquently, he hoped, and then he added _Three less than before. Too many._

 _We…_ Phil made a vague gesture that indicated their general state of fucked that included being in a building that was on fire, down two skilled fighters, and hampered by the inclusion of prisoners to both cover and protect. 

_Nothing to lose._ Clint shrugged again, and raised an eyebrow in invitation. Phil’s lips tightened in a wry smile as he drew his gun. Clint gave a mental _fuckit_ and grabbed Phil by the back of his neck to yank him close enough to kiss. He let go after one firm press of mouth to mouth and then leaned the other way to touch a soft kiss to Nat’s cheek. If he was going to go, at least it’d be with his two favorite people by his side and in the company of some of the most badass badasses in the world. 

There were worse ends to face, and Clint hadn’t expected it to be this good.

He removed the quiver from his back, hooking it to his hip to increase his draw speed, and took a deep, steadying breath. Phil knelt by his knee, carefully lining up his extra clips and a pair of spare guns on the floor in front of him, then reached over to wrap his hand around the back of Clint’s knee, offering a squeeze that meant nothing at all but said all there was left to say between them. Basil had placed Jasper well back from the door beside Zeg, both of them pale from blood loss, before lumbering across to relieve Maria from covering the captives. Maria slid to one knee beside Nat, arranging her own spare weapons spread on the floor, with Jasper’s gun in her hand. 

Natasha nodded sharply and swung the door wide as they all tensed to begin firing.

Clint froze with his arrow on the string. A line of black SUV’s pulled up in front of the door, bullets striking the far side of the bulletproof metal and windows. If the color of the vehicles and the dramatic entrance hadn’t been enough of a tell, Clint could see the outline of the rampant eagle on the doors of each car, proudly proclaiming their origin. Sudden beams of brilliant light illuminated the entire warehouse compound, and more vehicles, all of them black, all of them bearing the SHIELD insignia, screeched in from every corner, spilling operatives in tactical gear before they even rolled to full stops.

Maria pressed the barrels of Nat’s guns downward before she ran into the street. A handful of agents collected around her, and she gestured toward the building where they all stood, her movements becoming tighter and more controlled as the conversation went on. Clint assumed she was demanding medical attention for their injured members, but the first people through the door were two women in sharp black suits to take charge of their prisoners.

Phil climbed slowly to his feet, and Clint relaxed his draw as Phil gently pulled him back from the door. _My boss._ Phil signed, smiling wryly as a team of medics came in bearing stretchers to collect Jasper and Zeg. 

“He always so dramatic?” Clint asked aloud, hoping he wasn’t yelling. “I mean, his apparent attachment to Zeg would suggest that he probably is.”

 _Not always. Mostly. But not always._ Phil smiled, small and self-deprecating and continued, _Sometimes he sends me._

Clint slung his bow across his back and folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall as he watched the medics work swiftly around Jasper and Zeg. As the stretchers were carefully wheeled out, Phil caught his arm, guiding him out of the burning office and leading him to a safer distance away from the fire. Phil leaned against the side of a car, flinched at the cold of the metal on his back and straightened quickly, and Clint couldn’t help it; he laughed, a great bark of humor that billowed up as much from relief as humor.

A shimmer in the shadows of a building caught Clint’s eye, and he saw Nat watching him from a broken window. He nodded to her, the slightest lift of his chin, but he knew she saw and understood. They’d planned where to meet, should they get separated, and she wouldn’t worry, knowing he was Phil.

Clint laughed again, throwing back his head to watch the sparkles of embers and burning ash from the dual fires float into the sky, smoke blotting out the stars. This moment, this one moment was good. Word had come that Zeg and Jasper were going to survive. Nat had appeared briefly, twice, to tell Clint that the rest of Quinn’s hirelings had been collected from the area. And Clint had this one perfect moment to share with Phil.

 _God, I’m going to miss this man._ The thought burned in Clint’s eyes, choked his throat. If asked, he was going to lie and say that it was just the fire, of course.

He turned to Phil, taking in the soot-smudged exhaustion of him, the bruises from the explosion and the bruises from Clint’s mouth and fingertips mingling across his shoulders and chest. Clint’s lungs grew so tight that he knew he’d suffocate, right there on the street, if he didn’t get one more kiss. And he leaned in slowly, enjoying the way Phil’s eyes went wide and dark and hungry. 

Before they made contact, the glare from the helicopter caught them for just a moment, and the spell was broken.

There were too many people here that called Phil “boss.” There were too many people that didn’t need to see Phil liplocked with and being half-humped by someone who probably often showed up on their system as a person of interest at best and a suspect at worst. Phil’s authority was worn easily, but it could still probably be stripped away by the wrong kind of rumor getting started in the wrong kind of place.

Clint sighed and turned partially away, folding his arms over his own chest. He might as well start getting used to the fact that Phil belonged to them. To SHIELD. Not to Clint. 

____

 

Phil watched the teasing light in Clint’s eyes fade away, watched Clint pull back and fold in on himself, and forced himself not to react. This was, as so clearly demonstrated by the way he was looking hard at anything except Phil, _It_. Over. End of mission. End of Phillip and Anton. End of Clint and Phil. 

He took a deep, steadying breath and forced himself to pull his shit together. It wouldn’t do to reach for Clint. Not right now. Not on this street. The last thing Phil wanted was to have witnesses to being dumped. 

Well, it was good while it lasted. It’s been real and it’s been fun and it’s been--

“Sir?” A fresh-faced agent with a ponytail and a kevlar vest that appeared to be on its first outing was standing so stiffly at attention that Phil was struck by the thought that bullets wouldn’t have penetrated that level of tension, vest be damned. “Varseg… Verzig… The, er, _person_ with the black hair is awake and asking for you. She refuses to allow us to take her for medical attention until she’s spoken with you.”

“Please tell _Waarzegster_ that I will be with _them_ in just a moment.” Phil glanced over at Clint. “And just _ask_ for the correct pronunciation and pronouns when you’re uncertain, Agent. It’s much less offensive than getting them both wrong.” He turned to Clint. “I’ll be back in a minute. Wait for me?”

Clint nodded, once, still not looking at Phil’s eyes, and Phil hoped that nod was enough to keep Clint there. He still needed to find out and pass on transportation information for Clint and Natasha’s flight home. And he still needed to find enough courage to say goodbye.

Zeg was buckled onto a stretcher loaded into an ambulance when Phil caught up to them after having sent a medic over to Clint with a t-shirt and a blanket. They were awake but groggy, wide blue eyes limpid and thick with pain. Phil caught Zeg’s hand, lifting it carefully off of their stomach. He chose the one not bandaged from fingertips to shoulder, of course, and pressed their slender fingers between his two palms.

“Thanks for your help tonight, Waarzegster.” He reached up to push a lock of their dark hair off of their paler-than-normal cheek. “We may not have retrieved the plans, but it appears they and the prototypes all went up in the fire and explosions. So at least they’re not in Quinn’s hands anymore.”

“We’ll discuss Quinn and the plans with you later, Phillip.” Zeg’s eyes glazed a bit while they fought back a growl. Their voice was thin and breathy as they went on. “We can’t… I can’t… we... A message. To Nick. To Fury Please, Phil.”

Phil smiled at Zeg’s use of his own name instead of calling him Agent; returning the favor was the least he could do. “Of course, Zeg.” 

“Two words, Phillip. Just two words. Promise us.” Zeg glared at him as best they could while clearly starting the climb toward the heights of pain medication. Phil clamped down on a smile, nodding solemnly and promising he would remember. “Tell him… Tell him we said ‘it’s time.’”

____

Clint was wearing a t-shirt handed to him by a helpful SHIELD agent, black, too tight on his biceps, with a black on black eagle on his left boob. He’d accepted the blanket offered by another, but it sat on the hood of the car behind him, unused, but in reach. Mostly, he’d wanted it nearby in case Nat showed back up. She would probably appreciate the shelter from prying eyes, should she come out to see what was going on with SHIELD or Phil or Maria. Or, ya know, Clint.

Phil’s hand was unexpected, warm and welcome when it dropped onto Clint’s chest, covering the emblem on his pec and pressing. 

_Looks good._ He wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t meet Clint’s eyes as he signed. _Keep that. Remember me._

As if Clint could possibly forget. As if he wouldn’t think of Phil every time he saw a suit or a tie, a sunrise or a sunset or the stars overhead. As if he wouldn’t think of Phil every time he saw the color black or breathed in or out or blinked…

He nodded, watching Phil’s fingers trace over one of the eagle wings. Phil’s eyes suddenly widened, and his hand dropped as he raised terrified eyes to Clint’s face. There were still too many people around, too many curious eyes watching. Clint swallowed hard and nodded, watching Phil watch Clint’s lips. It would be so easy, so natural, to just tip himself forward, let Phil catch him, collect him in those strong arms, cradle him close with those capable hands, and just… let their mouths connect. Just sink in and hold and be held and stay and--

“Sir? Agent Hill says these need your signature.” The junior agent that had accidentally insulted Zeg earlier was back with a handful of forms clutched tight and a look of wide-eyed wonder on her face. Clint wondered how loudly she must have been shouting for Clint to have understood her. Well, that was sure to have everyone looking right at them. Clint cleared his throat and looked away as Phil took the papers and proffered pen. He leaned against the roof of the car to sign the papers, putting his mouth near enough to Clint’s ear to speak to him.

“I spoke to my boss, Director Fury,” Phil said casually, so _painfully_ casually. “He’s flying you and Natasha home first class. You’ve got three more days here, but it’s the best we could manage. Someone should be over with your flight info in a few minutes. I’ll… I’ll have them drive you and Natasha wherever you want to go.” 

Clint bobbed his head in acknowledgement, tapped his hands against his thighs and shuffled his feet, then bobbed his head again.

“You coming to see me off? At the airport?” Clint hoped, oh how he hoped. Just one more minute away from the prying eyes of those who would matter to Phil. Just one more chance to taste that mouth, hold the man in his arms for just one more precious minute. He threw away his pride. “Please, Phil. You’ve gotta be there... I need… Please.”

Phil seemed to forget the forms, forget the agent quivering at his heels like some kind of half-trained puppy, forget that they were on scene at a giant fire that was threatening to take out a trainyard full of warehouses. He nodded and reached up to brush one finger against Clint’s bottom lip. 

“I’ll be tied up until then. Paperwork. Organizing cleanup.” Phil’s eyes were swimming, the sparkle in them hidden behind tears. Clint sniffed hard and looked away, feeling the itch in his own eyes, how own throat growing thick.

“Well, I guess Nat and I better get out of here and start getting our shit together.” Talking was hard, and Clint stepped away, shouldering his bow and signing the rest. _See you soon, love._

Phil nodded once more. _See you. I’ll be there. Promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Zeg’s got a secret, Clint’s got a secret, and Phil makes a decision.
> 
>  I promise, I'm not just battering the boys for kicks. There's a plan. There's a plan to stick them so tightly together after they think they're broken all apart that they'll never need to be apart again. At least not emotionally-speaking. Hold tight for just a little bit longer, and then watch the dawning of the most ridiculously sappy-happy ending of all time!
> 
> _This year will NOT stop trying to kick my butt. More plumbing problems, more health misadventures, MORE dental the-opposite-of-fun. But I promise you, ALL of you, that there is NO CHANCE this story will be abandoned. NO. CHANCE._
> 
>  
> 
> _It’s outlined to the end and already developing along as we go. THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH for your patience with me. Seriously, is it 2016 yet???_
> 
>  
> 
> _And, if you need something to read while you’re waiting, check out my one-shot[Clearly a Problem](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3585171/chapters/7905357), a Clint/Coulson meet cute where there are some INTERESTING uses for personal wellness devices, rompy fun, humor, and sex. Mostly in that order._
> 
>  
> 
> _More thanks to my beloved beta, braintwin, collaborator, and friend[Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar) for all she does to keep me moving, inspiring me, and being a rock in the chaos._


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you _mean_ he can’t get on the plane tomorrow?” Phil could hear the edge of panic in his own voice, but he was too exhausted to rein it in. The only thing keeping him from collapsing in on himself since the cleanup had begun was the certain knowledge that he had to finish up in time to see Clint off. To see Clint onto the plane that would fly him across the ocean, out of Phil’s life, and back to the-- admittedly thin-- aura of safety of the US and Home.

“Yes, sir, I am well aware of that.” Phil pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding the cellphone to his face. “No, sir. Qui-- The suspect detonated the computer. By the time Cl-- Hawkeye-- and I made it into the room, it was a flaming, melting mess. My priority was getting the prisoners, the Black Widow, and your--- and Waarzegster-- out of there.”

He would have kept going, explaining the lack of useful discoveries, but a pair of agents in hazmat suits scrambled up the heap of rubble that Phil had occupied as his king-of-the-mountain observation deck. One of them held up a small, half-melted piece of unrecognizable circuitry and plastic while the other babbled incoherently about engineering specs and recently fabricated something-or-other. Phil nodded solemnly at them while Fury continued his rant in Phil’s ear. Phil had no idea what the agents were saying to him beyond _we don’t know what this is; should we bag it?_ He nodded an affirmative and turned his attention back to his boss.

Phil didn’t tell him _I’m wearing the same half of a suit that has your lover’s blood all over it. I think there are unmentionable stains on the inside of these pants, and there is possibly still more unmentionable dried in my chest hair under the too-small t-shirt that I’m_ certain _was someone’s idea of a joke. I’ve been standing here choking on smoke and ash for twenty-two hours with no shower, and I would like to go take a shower, debrief Natasha about what happened in that office, and then de-brief my nearly-ex boyfriend one more time if he’ll let me. After which I’ll curl up and sleep with him in my arms until it’s time to escort him right out of my life when I put him on a commercial plane to God knows where._

Knowing that would be saying too much, he simply answered, “We’re nearly done digging through the rubble here, sir. I need to debrief our entire team, but I have to go shower and grab a nap before I do so that I can understand the words they say to me.”

Nick’s voice came back over the line, soft and understanding and negatory, and Phil did _not_ cry, standing on the highest point from which he could both direct operations and still be accessible to the cleanup team. He _would not_ sink down on his already filthy rear and bury his face in his knees like a disappointed five year old in front of the cleanup crew and an oversight team from Malene’s agency. He _did_ start making his way down the side of his rubble mountain, though.

Too tired to maintain much more control, he needed to get to a _Someplace Else_ , and quickly.

“Yes, sir. I understand. If you talk to Jasper before I do, tell him good job on the debriefs and that I’ll be by for his reports later.” Phil pinched the bridge of his nose again, this time to hide the dampness in his eyes, knowing the red would be taken for smoke irritation. “See you soon, sir.” 

Phil disconnected the call, racing to be the first to hang up, knowing it was a petty victory. But Jasper shouldn’t have been the one to debrief Natasha. _Or_ Clint (and Phil firmly did not allow himself to repeat his de-brief joke, even in his own head). Who knew if Jas was sober enough after all his pain medication! Who knew if Jas asked all the correct questions (of course he did; Jasper was damn good at his job). 

All Phil _did_ know was that he was desperately holding onto the diminishing hope that he’d get to see Clint just one more time.

____

Jasper wanted to put his pillow over his head to drown out the conversation going on in the next bed. To do so, however, would involve far more motor control than he could muster after his most recent dose of narcotics for the patched-up bullet wound in his right arm. Also, moving would draw attention to the fact that he’d _been_ awake since Zeg’s telephone had blared the first twangy notes of Blind Love. The conversation that followed was _not_ the kind that Jasper needed to hear, however, being of a nature both very personal and very private. He tried to conjure up some mental Bjork to drown out what his ears heard.

He wasn’t terribly successful. 

“Goddamnit, Z! I told you to stay safe.” Nick Fury, Jasper’s fucking _boss_ , sounded rough as hell, even through the tinny speakerphone, but his voice was thick with emotion and soft with intimacy. He clearly hadn’t slept in days.

That was only fair, in Jasper’s book. Zeg, lying pale and tense in their own hard little hospital bed, certainly hadn’t done much sleeping. They’d refused most pain medication, setting their jaw stoically and refusing to give in to the sweet relief of light-headed floatiness unless and until Basil was sitting in the stiff little chair between the two beds. Even then, they accepted only the barest minimum. They’d explained to Jasper that it wasn’t that they didn’t _trust_ the SHIELD agents stationed in the hallway-- handpicked by Fury, no doubt-- they just felt so _exposed_ without their usual layers of security around them. 

Jasper had tried not to choke on the word _exposed_ , no matter how much the word sounded like innuendo in Zeg’s teasing voice. Hell, _everything_ sounded like innuendo, when Zeg spoke.

Now, finally having Fury on the phone, Zeg sounded almost relaxed for the first time since they had woken, arm and leg splinted, hip stitched, and covered in bruises.

“There is only so much _safety_ to be found in the middle of explosions and insane rich men, Nicholas.” Zeg coughed painfully, and Jasper peeled open one eye to check on them. He watched them pull the black silk closed around their neck, shivering in the coolness of the room, and gave up on his pretend sleep.

He missed part of the conversation as he dragged himself unsteadily to his feet, working awkwardly around the sling on his right arm, and wobbled his way to the linen warmer. Getting the two warmed blankets over Zeg was even more awkward with both of them down a functional hand apiece. Eventually, after much muttered swearing in several languages on both of their parts, the fresh covers were tucked in against Zeg’s robe-clad body and the other covers were pulled back up over the top.

“I will _kill_ that slimy bastard, baby.” Fury growled, clearly alarmed by the grunts of pain and hissed expletives, and Jasper tried to pretend he hadn’t heard the endearment. Zeg laughed at Jasper’s expression and caught his right elbow with their left hand, coaxing him to sit on the edge of their bed. “I’d do it for trying to put his lips on you without your express permission, but for actually _shooting_ you? I’ll use my bare hands.”

“Permission to hold him still for you, sir?” Jasper decided that, if Zeg didn’t mind him listening in, he wasn’t going to hide from his boss. Zeg laughed again, rich and throaty, and then choked and pressed their unsplinted hand over the bandage on their hip and coughed until the pain receded. 

“Z,” Fury’s voice was gentler than Jasper had ever heard him, and Jas felt weirdly voyeuristic and terribly out of place. “You okay, baby? And are you trying to subvert my agents?”

“Any subversion was entirely accidental.” Zeg accepted the cup of water that Jasper handed over from their bedside tray and took a sip. “And don’t be dramatic, love.” Jasper wondered what weird parallel universe he’d walked into where someone called Director Nicholas Fury _love_. “We two can hit Quinn in so many more _painful_ places than his overpriced nose. Much more satisfying, when there’s money for keeping score”

Fury rumbled thoughtfully before answering with a smile in his voice. “Government contracts.” 

“Jas, darling,” Zeg smiled brightly up at him, and, if it weren’t for the fine lines around their eyes, Jasper would _almost_ have believed that they were entirely healed. “Would you please go into the bathroom and pretend you can’t overhear what we’re about to say? Plausible deniability will stand we three all in good stead, once this is over.”

Jas patted the back of their uninjured left hand before heaving himself up and into the small adjoining bath. He didn’t press himself against the door, but only because he was too high to stand upright that long. Plopping down to sit on the side of the tub, he tilted until his ear rested against the wall, and he easily could hear Zeg’s urgent voice, low and warm and fond.

“There are not many legal avenues open for either of us two, regarding Quinn. There cannot be a court or Congressional hearing. Who could testify? Just two heard him say he was in possession of those plans, and which of us could you put on the stand? The Russian defector suspected in several high-profile assassinations, or the one known for operating our own illegal counterintelligence organization these past _thirty-five_ years? Would you divulge publically that you wish to hire her, bring her in under your umbrella and make only quasi-legal use of her skillset? Would you stand in front of a court of law and openly declare to your handlers, keepers, and bosses that we are yours and you are ours? Would you admit to them that you have so long been associated with the Fortune Teller? Would you admit to bedding us for information? To make use of our networks? To get us to do things your way?”

“I did _not_ bed you to get anything more than your body, baby.” Fury’s voice was more muffled, but not enough to hide the heat in the words, and Jasper jerked himself upright to remove his face away from the tile, _really_ not wanting to know what was said next. Spying was one thing, but knowing details from his boss’s love life was simply a bridge too far.

One he’d been forced into crossing that one time before and refused to set foot on _ever_ again.

____

Phil dragged himself into the shower and sighed with something loosely related to relief. The water, already fully-hot and raining down, poured over his face and body, and for a long moment he just stood, letting it run through the soot in his hair and on his arms. He knew he needed to add soap for any hope of washing the grit out of his eyelashes, getting enough out of the lines on his face to keep him from looking like a coal miner. For the moment, however, scrubbing was beyond him. He angled the showerhead to keep the flow on him as he leaned back, shivering when his skin made contact with the cold ceramic of the tile. It was lean or collapse, however, so he could bear the cold for a few minutes longer. Theoretically.

Although he hadn’t done any of the _actual_ digging through the rubble of the warehouse fire, he still was covered with the grime of dozens of agents scurrying around, rummaging through heaps of dirt and ash like pigs hunting truffles, trying to retrieve all they could of the damaged pieces of tech they found there. Most of it was unrecognizable as, well, _anything_ that it might have once been. But he’d seen the sci-tech teams do amazing things with splinters tiny enough to go unnoticed in a finger; they basically were bagging what appeared to be the whole heap to take home and let their own mad scientists loose on.

He felt like he’d never be clean again. The ruined pants of his formerly-best suit were lying in a heap on the floor. Phil had really loved that suit. Poor suit! Even the finest fabric and best construction wasn’t enough to stand up to the night he’d had and the day that had followed. It had survived dancing with the Anton-version of Clint. Hadn’t strained at all through the very public proposal. Would likely have made it through sex in the closet with only a severe need of dry-cleaning. It _might_ have made it through _an_ explosion, but it wasn’t designed to survive three. And then, of course, it had been taken apart to be used as compresses on Zeg’s wounds.

Aww, _dammit!_ He’d forgotten to ask Nick how Zeg was doing. Certainly, he’d had updates from the hospital via Mars. But remembering to ask after his boss’s significant other would have given him a distinct psychological advantage earlier when he’d been floundering. Also, he would have liked a more personal report than the brisk updates he got from Maria, and the one vaguely cryptic text message from Natasha.

 _Brother won’t leave hotel. I am at hospital where everyone will recover. Make good decisions._ Phil had stared at it until he memorized it, and he closed his eyes under the cascade of the shower again and traced each word in his mind.

Eventually, exhaustion caught up to him, and his legs began to tremble. Phil quit trying to puzzle out what decisions, good or bad, he was supposed to be making and reached for a tube of shower gel. He found himself missing the water pressure in Zeg’s nearly magical shower ( _Oh, the magic tricks Phil had performed in that shower!_ ). Most of all, however, he missed the warmth of Clint sharing space with him. _God_ his arms felt as empty as his heart.

More than a day without Clint already. One more day and they would see each other again, though. So it would be just long enough to say goodbye. It would, at least, be one last chance to fix the changeable colors and moods of Clint’s eyes in his mind. A last time to mentally map out the sharp angle of Clint’s top lip. Would Phil be allowed to touch? To kiss? To hold?

And what _would_ he do after Clint left? They would never see each other again that much was--

“Oh my God.” Phil froze under the stream of water as the words forced their way out of him, loud in the small confines of the tiny tiled shower. “What if I’m ever ordered to arrest him?” 

That was… not how he would _ever_ want to reconnect with Clint. No. Absolutely not. He tried not to consider the other order he could receive: take down The Black Widow and Hawkeye

Phil’s fingers and toes were prunes by the time he shut off the water, still no closer to a solution. It wasn’t until he began to crawl into bed that he realized his hair was still tacky and his lips tasted of shampoo: He’d been so focused on how to avoid ever having to go after Clint that he’d fumbled the getting clean portion of his shower. He dragged himself up just long enough to stumble into the en suite and stick his head under the sink faucet, and then he was back in bed, hair soaking the pillow but too thoroughly wrung out to care.

____

Jasper’s ass had gone completely numb on the side of the tub, and he _really_ hoped that Fury was about done being sentimental. It was nearly time for his next dose of pain medication, and he was more than ready to return to the over-washed thinness of the scratchy hospital sheets and let another round of sleep overtake him. 

“Excuse me, ma-- Ss-- Waarzegster.” The agent on guard in the hall sounded startlingly loud through the thin wall by Jasper’s face. “Is Agent Sitwell available? Only there are two people here who say they have orders to debrief with him.”

Jas tried to leap to his feet, momentarily forgetting the numbness in his nether regions, and nearly tipped backward into the tub. He flailed and listed before managing to heave himself upright. Cringing at the strain on his explosion-induced bruises, he dragged himself back into the main room just in time for Romanov and Barton to push their way in. Zeg’s greeting to the mercs was warm and slightly too chipper.

“Yes, they’re here now.” Zeg lifted the phone and pressed the speakerphone button before pressing the receiver to their face. “Don’t _worry_ , love. We’ll make certain it sticks... No, love. We have an idea… Aren’t all of our ideas?”

Zeg ended the call and turned to Jasper with an expectant smile, head tilted with birdlike interest. 

“You don’t mind if we listen in, do you, darling?” they asked, lifting one eyebrow. Even without makeup, those wide, blue eyes were irresistible weapons, and Jasper smiled tiredly back at them.

“Of course not, Zeg.” Jasper waved Barton and Romanov toward the two hard-backed guest chairs as he crawled back into his own bed, grateful again to be in sleep pants and a t-shirt instead of hospital gown. “Gonna have to record this, though, because I won’t be writing for a while.” He lifted his right arm slightly to indicate the sling, wincing at the pull in the stitches in the meat of his bicep. 

The shot had been a clean through-and-through-- by far not the worst injury Jas had received on the job, but it was enough to remember why he’d switched to a supervisory position as soon as he’d been able to do so without slowing down his career. Most of his field action for the past year and a half had been selling Fury’s lies to increasingly decorated levels of military bigwigs and top brass. He also knew he was back on the active roster for this assignment as a punishment for the little paperwork faux pas that had resulted in Phil ending up using a real matchmaker site. 

Then again, without his error, he wouldn’t have gotten the chance to try, one last time, to _actually recruit_ two of the top-trained mercenary operatives in the world. _And_ he’d gotten the chance to work with a legendary spymaster like Zeg; see how the other half lived, learn from their wily methods.

_Maybe I should fuck up more often._

Jas shook off his reverie and settled himself once more against the pillows. He fumbled his phone off the tray beside his bed, drawing up the recording app.

“In your own words, Mr. Barton.” Jasper set the phone on the edge of the bed, nearest to Barton, certain that the answers to his questions would come out mumbled and quiet. Jesus, Barton looked beat up. There were dark rings under his eyes, lines around his mouth and crossing his forehead, as if he’d aged ten years in barely over a day. He looked older than his years, rather than Anton’s much younger age, and Jas wondered what Phil would think about that.

To Jas’s surprise, the stream of events, leaving out the _intimate moments_ (both those Jas had interrupted and all the others Jas had tried _not_ to imagine), came out in a crisp tone, words concise and carefully chosen. Everything, from meeting Phil at the airport to the rescue of Zeg and Jasper himself was given with no unnecessary elaboration, and just enough exposition to show the importance of each point. Jas was going to _have_ to convince Fury to let him use this tape as a training tool for the baby agents. 

_This is how to debrief!_

____

It was too damn early to be awake yet. Not that Phil knew what time it _actually_ was when his phone rang. It was light beyond the curtain, but that had no meaning, based on the drag of exhaustion on his body. Too damn early to make any sense of the babble on the other end of the line. So early, in fact, that it took several sentences before Phil realized it was Malene, talking a mile minute, on the other end of the line.

And then the actual words Malene was saying started to trickle through the tiredness, and Phil sat bolt upright in the bed, heart stuttering in his chest.

“What do you _mean_ he can’t get on the plane tomorrow?” Phil could hear the edge of panic in his own voice, but he was too exhausted to rein it in. The only thing keeping him from collapsing in on himself since the cleanup had begun was the certain knowledge that he had to finish up in time to see Clint off. To see Clint onto the plane that would fly him across the ocean, out of Phil’s life, and back to the-- admittedly thin-- aura of safety of the US and Home.

“I’m sorry, Phillip!” Malene’s usually controlled voice was as tight and worn as Phil’s own. “Clint Barton will not be allowed to board tomorrow. However, if you still have the paperwork you brought with you, we can probably send Anton Vinogradov to the US… with one small modification. If you’re willing.”

Phil waited for her to explain, certain he didn’t want to know that “modification” to the plan was. He _absolutely_ did not want to know. His gut tightened with the same sense of dread he always felt before his world turned upside down or a mission went entirely to hell. 

The feeling was justified.

The longer Malene explained, the sicker Phil felt. 

_Oh, this is going to be the_ worst _decision I’ve made in a long damn time._ Phil scrubbed a hand over his face. 

“Fine.” He interrupted, covering his face with his palm and trying to breathe through the nausea that threatened to swamp him. “Just tell me where I need to be and what time.”

“Don’t forget to bring witnesses.” Malene managed to hit a note that held both sympathy and smugness. Phil felt a wild desire to see if her hand-to-hand combat training was still up to scratch. Maybe just shoot her. Only a little bit, of course, because she was a friend. But still…

 _I_ can’t _do this._

____

“You don’t _have_ to do this.” Nat gently lifted the comb out of Clint’s fingers and dropped it back into the toiletries bag that rested on the narrow shelf in front of the mirror. The powder room was small but well-appointed, and they bumped and brushed against one another as they both primped. Natasha didn’t need the primping, of course, perfect as ever she was. He appreciated that she didn’t simply stand and stare at him, however. _Prepping the fatted calf for the feast. Dressing the virgin for the volcanic sacrifice._ She fished in the bag for a moment before coming up with the hair gel to make him look artfully disarranged instead of the merely messy that was all he could manage with his trembling fingers. “Seriously, Clint, we can find another way.”

“Look, at the moment I have ID for Clinton Francis Barton who will be arrested when he touches down on American soil.” He huffed a sigh and tilted his head to insert the post of an earring through a hole in his lobe. “The real pisser of that whole mess is that my supposed crime is stealing the goddamned plans that I lost the last year of my life trying to retrieve.” He wiggled another hoop into his other ear. “Or I have papers for Anton Vinogradov, who won’t be allowed into the US without being legally bound to one Phillip Marcus. So I’m doing this, _as Anton_ , so we can get home and get the other shit straightened out.”

“We can find another way.” Natasha ducked to wiggle into the loop of Clint’s arms as he slid his rings onto his fingers, and he let her lean into his chest, trying to offer as much comfort as he was getting from the warmth and closeness of her. “Now that we know who _did_ take the plans, we’ll be able to avoid them watching us when we leave Europe. I have other identities waiting for us in at least half a dozen places.”

“Nat,” Clint began, feeling utterly hopeless and helpless and too beaten down to fight another step. He pressed his face into the fragrant waves of her glossy red hair and inhaled, pulling her closer. “Sis, I’m just _tired_. I want out of here as fast as I can. I just want to start forgetting.”

 _Forgetting._ Like there was one moment of the last four weeks he would _ever_ forget. For two solid days, Clint had holed up in the luxury hotel where Zeg had put Clint and Nat up, doing his best to turn his brain off, to stop reliving every touch, every kiss, every word and look he’d exchanged with Phil. The first time he’d managed to drag himself out of bed was to debrief with Sitwell. Prior to that, he’d simply lain on the mattress, blankets squeezed tightly around himself, trying not to sigh _too_ audibly. He’d sat up and pretended to eat when room service arrived with meals to keep Nat from worrying too much. She’d reluctantly left him to go to the excavation site twice to watch SHIELD oversee the cleanup. She’d tried to coax Clint into joining her, but he knew that Phil would be there. That Phil would be busy. 

He knew, too, that there was no way he’d be content to watch Phil from a distance. Not now. Not when the end was so damned close.

So he’d spent two days in bed, moping. Mourning. Trying to forget. Hoping Nat didn’t notice that the pajamas he was wearing weren’t his own.

“младший брат,” Natasha’s voice pulled him back out of his head. He blinked at her, wishing he could just continue to wallow in memories; it was easier to keep up the outward appearance that he wasn’t shattering. “They’re waiting on you. If you’re _sure_ about this, we should go.” 

He nodded and suddenly realized his lips were numb, but he squared his shoulders and met his eyes in the mirror one last time before turning to go.

“I don’t want Anton to do this, Nat.” The confession burst out of Clint when he was nearly to the bathroom door. “ _I_ want this. As Clint. For _me_. I mean, maybe it’s too early, but I wish I could--” His voice cracked, and he spun into her arms, again hiding his face against her hair. “Why does Anton get every damn thing _I_ want?”

It was stupid. And whiny. And probably immature. But Clint couldn’t help the way his heart begged. 

_Why can’t I have this one piece of Phil, for_ real _, even if it’s just for the duration of the flight home?_

____

 

Phil was _not_ watching Clint when he and Natasha came out of the restroom. He was a absolutely not fixated on the way the brilliant overhead lights glinted off the tips of Clint’s rumpled hairs. He was certainly not observing the paleness to Clint’s face or the shadows that spoke of a lack of sleep under those sad green eyes. There was no _way_ he was looking at Clint’s hands and imagining how they would feel against his own face, his neck, his back, his…

No. Phil was not _watching_ him. He just happened to be looking in that direction. 

_Even_ you _don’t believe that, Phillip_ , he told himself, firmly reminding himself that he had a spine and he knew how to use it. If this was the last thing he could do for Clint-- as a thank you for his help on the mission, as a gesture of gratitude for sharing his heart and body-- well then… It was such a very small thing, and Phil would give Clint _anything_ in his power to give.

“Can we get this wedding going already?” Jasper shuffled in his chair, trying to find a way to comfortably cradle his sling-supported arm while not pressing the exit wound against the back of the chair.

“It’s not a _wedding_ ,” Phil snapped, tightening his interlaced fingers to keep from punching Jasper in his good left arm. Seriously, though, how many times was he going to have to say it? How many times was he going to have to break his own damned heart? He _wished_ it was a wedding. Wished it was _his_ wedding. 

What this thing _actually_ was turning out to be was a very refined form of torture. 

Here they sat in some-- _some_ kind of official’s office. Both Malene and Zeg had proven strangely tight-lipped on exactly _who_ they were meeting there. They were both surrounded by the very people that _would_ attend their wedding in another life. And in just a few minutes, he and Clint would pretend to bind themselves together in the eyes of several different governments and possibly the eyes of God.

It was a helluva way to say _goodbye_.

Phil had never thought his life would include a spouse. Certainly, he’d imagined being married a time or two, usually while resting up alone in his apartment after an op gone wrong. Every once in a great while he’d picture it while a mission was actively going to shit, or as he cooled his heels in some lonely cell at the ass-end of the world. He’d think of the person he had waiting back home, those rare times he’d been seeing someone, and wonder if they were still waiting for his call or if they’d already given up and moved on. Generally, they’d already lost his number by the time he was extracted or managed to fight his way free and to a phone to apologize for vanishing. He wondered what it would be like with a wife or a husband, someone that would get a call from his work when he went missing. Someone that would find out if he died and actually be upset.

Mars and Jas didn’t count, because they’d mourn, drink too much, and keep going. It was the life they’d all chosen. 

But now, years after he’d finally accepted that domestic bliss wasn’t part the life he was destined for-- that it would mostly just get in his way, in fact-- _now_ he was going to make a vow. A vow that wouldn’t even count. No matter how wistfully Phil wished.

_Fuck this mission. Fuck my life. Fuck Jasper’s paperwork idiocy, fuck Brown and Richolt, and fuck Ian Fucking Quinn!_

Phil sighed and went back to not watching Clint fidget and shuffle and generally just look as hollowed out and emotionally drained as Phil felt.

 

____

Nat forced herself not to continue fussing with Clint’s hair while they lingered in the institutional, personality-less waiting room. With his best suit in tatters after the active portion of the mission, Clint was reduced to dressing up in simple slacks topped by the purple silk shirt he’d worn when he’d gone to seduce Phil at the club. It was fairly clear that he’d chosen the shirt to coordinate with the over-the-ear hearing aids that he carried as backups, their obviousness a giant _Fuck You_ to a world where some people regarded him as _less than_ for needing to wear them. She also didn’t miss the fact that the ring finger on his left hand was not decorated by the usual circle of silver that it sported when Clint wore his jewelry. If his eyes hadn’t been so full of sadness, he would have made a very handsome groom.

Instead, he made a very handsome hero in the story of her life, and she would never _not_ be grateful for all he sacrificed to keep her safe. She made a mental note to tell him that someday, when he was strong enough to hear her.

Phil had slipped back into one of his standard dark suits, well-tailored and nicely-fitting, but not so striking as the bespoke miracle he’d worn for the reception. Poor Clint! Nat knew how much he’d admired that suit. Phil had foregone a tie, wearing his collar and the first two buttons on his shirt open, leaving his throat bare and fragile-looking. She was unsettled by that: finding anything on Phil that seemed vulnerable. Somehow, her own views had been colored by Clint’s, or maybe she had just been blinded by Agent Coulson’s unbreakable exterior. Although, really, now that she thought about it, she found that she _liked_ Phil better than Agent Coulson. Probably because Phil loved Clint, and she would accept anyone that cared about him as much as she did.

She would _never_ tell Clint _that_ , having already missed the opportune moment; all it would do now was hurt him more.

Under the bright glare of the overhead lights, Phil seemed paler than usual, insubstantial, fading. Even the deep blue of his shirt-- surely chosen to bring out the color of his eyes-- appeared washed out and bland. His eyes were huge behind his glasses, but dim and grey and rimmed with red. His shoulders hunched forward defensively, and Nat thought of an old joke about a man who tried to hide behind himself.

Clint studied him though, obviously not missing a detail in spite of Phil’s attempted vanishing act. His eyes were hungry, his expression that of a child watching someone else eat cake. Or maybe a cat staring at a bird through a closed window. He trembled where he stood, body tensed, and Nat couldn’t tell if he was braced to run toward Phil or if he was preparing to run away. 

Maria sat in one corner, still and unreadable, as if she wasn’t certain whether she was there to witness a wedding or an execution. Malene sat beside her, occasionally speaking too quietly for Natasha to hear from across the room, and, if Maria’s terse answers were anything to go by, Maria hadn’t heard much either. Zeg, in neutral colors with only a hint of makeup, was in a wheelchair pushed by their faithful walrus. Basil stuffed himself into a penguin suit at least twenty years out of date, and he looked so dapper that Natasha found herself wanting to pinch his cheek. They comprised an odd collection for a wedding, but then, this was an odd kind of wedding.

She heaved a sigh of relief when a mousy man in a tweedy suit called Clint and Phil into the office to swear that they were agreeing to be married, to live as spouses, to take on the full legal and emotional responsibilities for one another. She didn’t miss the sighs of relief from others around the room, either, although she noticed that the grooms themselves both paled, carefully avoiding exchanging touches as Phil ushered Clint through the door first. Zeg set their mouth in a thin, determined line as they pushed themself out of their chair to walk, leaning heavily on a cane and on Basil’s arm. They caught Nat’s eye and winked at her, their expression turning sly and impish, and Nat was _absolutely positive_ that they had a hand in whatever this farce was.

That thought should not have proved as comforting as it was, but Zeg had a reputation for their plans working out. Nat wondered how this could _possibly_ be to anyone’s benefit, but she found herself suddenly carrying a small spark of hope. 

What followed wasn’t a wedding ceremony in the traditional sense of the word. Not that Nat had been to many weddings. Or, well, _any_ weddings. Any weddings where she wasn’t being paid to infiltrate and take someone out, at least. She was _reasonably_ certain those didn’t count, since the screaming might break out anywhere from the opening chords of the wedding march to the last dance of the reception, depending on who her target was in relation to the happy couple. She didn’t anticipate any bloodshed at _this_ event, however, in spite of the number of experienced assassins in attendance.

Clint and Phil each agreed to whatever they were asked to agree to, and the fervency in their voices more than made up for the physical space between them. Nat felt Zeg’s hand catch her elbow, offering her a steady place to drain away the tightness that built in her throat and threatened to lead to tears from watching Clint’s eyes. He seemed caught between ecstasy and terror, and, the longer he looked at Phil, the more the terror faded away.

So very soon, the official whatever-he-was offered the unhappy couple congratulations and pulled out the paperwork for them to sign. 

And that was when everything fell apart.

Maybe the weddings Natasha had attended before _weren’t_ so abnormal, after all.

____

 

Clint had no idea what he’d promised in front of whatever person Zeg and Malene had dug up that was apparently qualified to turn him into half of a married couple. He’d planned on locking away the memory to take out and play with later, but he’d mostly been focused on the soft blue eyes of the man beside him, watching the way Phil’s shoulders rose and fell on every breath, trying to tune out everything around him to hear the small gulp whenever Phil swallowed. Most of Clint's thoughts became a repetition of the words _gimme_ and _Phil_.

That was probably the insomnia talking.

Even if _had_ focused on the vows, or whatever it was they said that passed as such, he never would be able to remember a second of it. Every word that had been spoken, every question answered, and every promise made was driven entirely out of Clint’s head as he read the names on the paperwork lying on the desk in front of him, waiting to be signed.

_Phillip J. Coulson and Clinton F. Barton_

“This… This isn’t… What the _fuck_ is this?” Phil’s chest leaned against Clint’s back, solid, warm, welcome, as he read over Clint’s shoulder, his breath blowing hot against Clint’s ear. Clint was torn between gratitude for finally-- _finally_ having Phil’s touch to ground him and absolute horror at what appeared to be happening right in front of them.

“Oh dear.” Zeg’s snuffly consonants sounded far less alarmed than they should, given the gravity of the situation, and Clint wondered if it was a Dutch thing to remain so perfectly calm in utter disasters, or if that was just because Zeg was a bastard. “Well _that_ is unexpected. But not, we think, unfixable. No, we have contacts, and we’ll have your new paperwork by morning.”

“You mean we have to do this again?” Clint knew he’d squeaked as he said it, but, honestly, he could in no way survive another round of pretend-marrying Phil. Nope, he’d drop down, unable to say the _I will_ portion, and then Phil would be widowed. Widowered. Would have a dead husband. Whatever. Clint would expire before the wedding was over.

“Oh goodness, no.” Zeg turned a small smile on him, something secret dancing in their eyes, although it might have simply been a reaction to pain medication. “We’ll simply have you issued a new passport in your married name. There is no reason Clinton _Coulson_ won’t be able to board a plane for the United States.”

_There it is._

Clint took a deep breath, suddenly feeling the adrenaline drain away. No _wonder_ the whole day had felt so surreal. Obviously, he’d finally fallen asleep, and his brain was dragging out his happiest fantasies to help him rest easy. For once Clint wasn’t even having the underwear in the cafeteria at juvie dream (the only one he usually knew was a dream as it was happening, because there was no _way_ he'd be back there at his current age). This, however, was _blatantly_ just his imagination running away. Because that? There was no way _that_ was happening.

Phil and Clint were not married. Phil was going to go back to his badass secret agent life, and Clint would go back to being a no-name merc, and they’d both move on and only think of each other when they were horny and alone or with a really bad lay or when it rained or when the wind blew from the east or whatever shit. Just a dream. 

And Clint knew how to deal with dreams. Stay asleep and hold onto the good ones as long as possible. _That’s_ how to deal with dreams.

He grabbed the pen and scrawled his name on the proper line.

“If it’s the only way through…” he muttered, handing the pen back to Phil.

____

At Waarzegster’s insistence, the SHIELD team, Natasha and Clint, and Malene had gone out for lunch to _celebrate_ the end of the mission. Not that Phil could see much to celebrate. Quinn had gotten away. The plans had either been melted with the computer or burned to ash in the warehouse explosion. Jas was injured. Zeg was _badly_ injured and should certainly not have been out and about, hosting a luncheon, and pretending everything was _just fine_. Phil tried to breathe through it, hoping no one noticed the way his hands tried to shake.

After too many courses, too many sarcastic congratulations, and _far_ too much much sitting beside Clint, the meal was finally over. Phil hoped that now he’d finally have a chance to get somewhere at least semi-private so that he and Clint could actually _discuss_ this mess. Even still, with all the strangeness between them, with all the strain of the morning, and the weight of their future goodbyes hanging over them, Phil couldn’t resist resting his palm against the rock-hard muscles of Clint’s lower back as they stepped out into the rain-dampened street.

Phil knew he'd gone a little bug-eyed, staring at Jas and Mars, but they simply stared back in their own bug-eyed blankness. Granted, in Jas's case, the blankness was likely drug-related. Maria could blame that third cocktail. Still, for a moment, it felt like they were reading Phil’s mind. That they were hung up on the same thing he was.

_If it’s the only way through…_

The words still haunted Phil, hours after Clint had whispered them, stuffing the pen blankly into Phil’s hand. Clint had seemed so put off by seeing their names-- their _real_ names there-- side by side, as if they had really chosen to join themselves together. Clint seemed to have _resigned_ himself to it. Was he in that much of a hurry to get home, or was he in that much of a hurry to get away from Phil?

_If it’s the only way through…_

An echo of Clint’s voice, tight with emotion, thundered through Phil’s head, and he wondered if he was having an aneurism. But the misting rain dampened his scalp where the thinning hair failed to keep the weather off, and Clint’s shoulder was solid against his own. He decided to push it aside for now and see what _other_ surprises Zeg had in store for them all.

Beside him, Clint exchanged a long look with Natasha, before sighing dramatically and offering her a bright, brittle smile. Zeg watched them all with sharp eyes, bandaged at wrist and ankle, body hiding beneath a billowy coat that disguised both the sling that immobilized their arm and the elegant gold-tipped cane on which they heavily leaned. Jasper, with his right arm also in a sling, hovered at Zeg’s side, looking ferretish, mock-alert for danger under the glaze of the pill he popped before he ate. Behind him, Maria watched Phil with hard eyes, clearly planning some kind of _speech_ the instant she got him alone. And a fine and merry wedding party they all made…

Phil sighed, and all heads swiveled in his direction. He smiled weakly at the sudden attention, and Clint stiffened at his side.

“So what’s next on the agenda?” Clint shifted his weight, subtly leaning his shoulder in front of Phil’s as if to block the stares, and Phil wondered again what good he could possibly have committed to earn the care and concern of a man like Clint.

“We’ll have your passport in the morning, in plenty of time for you and Natasha to board the plane.” Zeg said, before sighing in clear relief as a pair of limos pulled up on the street. “These are all of our rides. We're sure the two of you will prefer to ride back to your room alone. You have… a lot to discuss.”

 _Your room._ Phil’s brain attempted to go offline.

Timing dramatic as always, Zeg finished dropping their bombshell and punctuated it by dropping their body into the leading car as Basil came around to open the door. Jas, whose smug little smirk said that he’d known about the shared room portion of the plan, no matter how surprising the morning had become, shunted Mars ahead of him toward the car. She had begun to scowl openly by then, but allowed herself to be pushed into the open door.

“See you in the morning, man.” Jas gave a little wave with his good arm as he slid in behind her. 

Natasha stepped forward to press her lips perfunctorily against Clint’s cheek, and then she shocked Phil by pressing her palm to his face and stretching up to give him a matching kiss. 

“Make it count, Phil,” she whispered, before she turned away and crawled into the backseat of the lead car.

“I guess this is our ride.” Clint sounded shy as he pointed to the second car. He held his hand up, fingers slightly spread near his temple and moved his hand away as he drew them together, eyebrows raised questioningly. _Let’s go?_

Phil nodded and let Clint hand him into the car first, barely remembering to nod a thanks to the driver as he slipped into the seat.

____

Clint wasn’t at all surprised to discover that the room reserved for Phil and himself was the room he’d been staying in for the past couple of nights, but he was extremely _relieved_ to find that maid service had obviously been in and the sheets that had been wrapped around his gross body had been changed. His bags-- bow case included-- were neatly packed and waiting in the corner of his and Nat’s room. Nat’s own bags, minus the small overnight case, were stacked on and around his. All that was left out was a single pair of jeans, a favorite stretched-out t-shirt, and his black leather jacket. Thankfully, his boots were waiting under the chair that the clothing had been stacked on, meaning at least he wouldn’t have to wear the stupid dress shoes he’d been stuck in all morning. He sighed in relief as he kicked them off and turned to face Phil, who’d stopped just inside the door of the room.

“Clint, I’m not--” Phil’s eyes were wide and lost, and Clint crossed the room to cup his palm’s along Phil’s jaw. That perfect, sharp, incredibly handsome jaw. His palms tingled at the contact, and he stroked his thumbs along Phil’s cheekbones. “This wasn’t--”

“No words, babe,” Clint interrupted, and he quickly tipped forward to catch Phil’s mouth with his own. The kiss was hard, demanding, and Clint sucked at the smooth line of Phil’s bottom lip until Phil broke with a throaty groan and pressed in closer. Clint pulled away to speak, lips still brushing Phil’s. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say right now, and there’s too much to think about. Don’t wanna think.”

Phil’s brow was pinched, eyes dark and haunted, but his hands were steady as they stroked over Clint’s biceps. “What do you need from me?” His voice was hoarse, rough with emotion and need, and Clint kissed him again.

“Just want to be close to you, babe.” Clint slid his arms around Phil’s neck, pressing his silk-covered chest against the wool lapels of Phil’s suit. “Just-- Can you just hold me? Not going to… Just want some… Want _more_. Before we…” He gave up trying to find words and trailed off, sighing contentedly as Phil’s arms slid around his waist.

So maybe they _were_ getting one more magical night. This one unexpected gift.

 _Wedding gift?_ Clint swallowed the sudden hysterical laughter that bubbled up, pressing his face into the side of Phil’s neck to hide his expression.

Maybe this _wasn’t_ actually all just a dream, in spite of the way that time kept skipping in Clint’s head. Clint always woke up before he got to the good parts of the best dreams. This, though, Phil holding him close, breathing against his neck, running his lips along the edge of Clint’s jaw? This was the best part of any dream he could ever imagine.

And he was going to stick with it as long as it could possibly last.

____

 

Phil had lost his jacket first to Clint’s careful exploration of his neck and shoulders. His shirt had somehow stayed on, though it was completely unbuttoned and flapping loose around him, but he had kicked off his shoes. Clint had led him to a chair after that before tenderly peeling off Phil’s socks, reverently kissing the knobs of Phil’s ankles, the arch of each foot, pressing tender lips to the tip of each of Phil’s toes before running his stubble-pricked cheeks over the thin skin on top of Phil’s feet. The same level of intense attention had been paid to Phil’s hands-- first the right, followed by the left-- leaving his cuffs free of their links and swinging every time Phil moved his arms.

Time had stopped while he and Clint had stood in the center of the room, exploring one another with their mouths, eyes closed as they licked and bit at one another, memorizing with touch and taste and smell. After baring Phil’s feet and worshiping his hands, Clint dragged himself up from where he knelt to tuck himself into Phil’s lap and his arms, shivering and silent. And there sat until Phil had broken the silence between them, asking softly against the shell of Clint’s ear, “Maybe we should move to the bed?”

Clint shoved himself up and away so quickly he nearly stumbled, hurrying to get across the room, shaking his head, arms crossed over his bare chest, hands clutching at his own biceps, shrinking away. Phil’s hand reached out involuntarily, trying to catch, to draw Clint back into his chest, and Phil forced himself to drop it back to his lap. He wasn’t sure why Clint had spooked so suddenly, if it was the suggestion of sex or a reminder of the intimacy of their position. Whatever had led to Clint’s sudden withdrawal, Phil had meant it when he asked Clint what _he_ needed. And if he needed distance now, that was fine. It _was_ fine, no matter how Phil’s heart sank at the loss of Clint’s muscular heat pressing into his body.

Phil stayed where he was, watching Clint’s skin and hair absorb the ruddy glow of the sunset, picking out the bruises Phil had left, mentally sorting them from the patchwork of scrapes and bruises left by the explosions they’d survived together. Clint’s skin was a map of their few short weeks together, and Phil knew he had the other half of that map written in pain and pleasure on his own chest and neck, ribs and face and legs. 

A businesslike rat-a-tat at the door startled a twitch out of Phil, but Clint didn’t look away from his contemplation of the city or of his own thoughts, wherever he was lost on his mental rambles. Even if Clint hadn’t heard the knock, he would certainly have seen Phil’s flinch from the corner of his eye, but his lack of reaction showed that he trusted Phil to watch over him. It was humbling, that proof of Clint’s regard for him, and some of the ache eased in his chest. Whatever was happening in Clint’s head at that moment, he hadn’t changed his mind or his feelings.

On the way to the door, Phil detoured to collect a gun out of the battered weekend bag that had been sent over for him before his arrival. Deciding to push his luck, he detoured to press a single kiss to the knob of Clint’s spine before going to open the door. Their visitor proved to be room service, delivering an intimate dinner for two accompanied by a card that bore a note written in a thin, spidery hand. 

_Assumed you would forget about eating, what with each other to devour. Best, Waarzegster_

Phil read the card twice over. 

“I’m fucking starving.” 

Clint’s approach was so soundless that Phil nearly jumped again when he spoke. He forced his shoulders to stay down, told his suddenly too-quick heartbeat to settle down, and handed the card back for Clint to read. He carefully lifted plate covers to see what Zeg had sent them. Clint reached past him to dip a finger in the sauce on an elegantly dished plate of vegetables.

“There’s plenty here,” Phil said, gesturing at the variety of loaded plates, staring at the fingertip caught between Clint’s lips. “Smells amazing.”

“Never said I was hungry for food.” Clint’s answering grin was wicked and predatory, and Phil’s heartbeat ratcheted higher. 

“May we… Can we _actually_ eat first?” Phil asked, feeling his cheeks heat. He bit his tongue to keep from adding, _I’m going to need to carb load to take on_ that _look._

Clint laughed, a short sharp bark of humor before he straightened and held out a strawberry.

“Probably for the best, babe,” he said, pupils widening when Phil ducked his head to bite the berry from Clint’s fingers, holding eye contact as he did it.

____

 

Watching the sunset had settled Clint’s chest, smoothing away the tangle of emotions that hit when he found himself actually belonging to Phil. Even if it was just for a little bit. Even if it still didn’t _really_ count. But tonight, this one perfect night of getting to just _be_ \-- it was enough. It would _be_ enough. It had to be. He could condense a lifetime of happiness into a few hours, and that was more than Clint Barton ever thought he’d get.

_Clint Coulson, rather._

Clint managed not to bristle at the thought of the name, even though he felt himself become a bit prickly at the edges. Marriage was fine. Hell, marriage was a luxury he never thought he’d be able to afford. 

_Again_ , whispered a little voice in his head, and Clint tracked it down and suffocated it. 

But… Did he _have_ to change his name? _Really?_ It smacked of ownership, was the thing that bothered him. Hyphenation. That would be a better way to go. Then they’d at least own half of each other.

The whole train of thought had switched tracks to head into the realm of the utterly ridiculous, and Clint pulled himself together so he could watch Phil running a fingertip over his plate to collect the final traces of chocolate. He unconsciously licked his lips as he watched Phil’s tongue run over the sticky shimmer of chocolate on his finger.

“I have something for you,” Phil told him, watching his own finger again trace over the plate in spite of there being no chocolate left to lift. “I… I planned it out last night when Malene called me and told me her _brilliant_ plan to get you on the plane tomorrow. I didn’t… I don’t know if you’ll want it, but I have it here. It’s just…”

He trailed off and pushed himself away from the table, making his way across to the heap of his jacket on the floor. His hand dipped into the inner pocket before he hung the jacket carefully on the back of the chair at the desk in the corner and returned to crouch beside Clint’s chair.

“Here it’s… I mean it was kinda yours to begin with, but… I guess…” He sucked in a deep breath and went on in a rush. “I want you to have it. To have this.” Phil lifted Clint’s hand and pressed a wide silver band into his palm: the communicator that Phil had used as an engagement ring. 

Clint forgot to breathe. 

“ _Put it on me, Phil._ ” His voice came out so hoarse that Clint barely recognized it as his own. 

“It, ahh, it won’t work as a communicator. Quinn’s EMP or whatever it was saw to that. And then I kinda dumped it in a sink full of water. Just to be sure.” Phil slid the ring over Clint’s ring finger and held his hand, thumb stroking where the ring sat on his ring finger. “It can’t ever be used to track you or anything like that. It’s safe, Clint. I promise.”

Phil leaned into the touch when Clint reached up and stroked his fingers along the smooth expanse of skin between Phil’s lovely eye crinkles and the scratch of his quickly developing evening shadow. 

“I trust you.” Clint cleared his throat to smooth away the last of the rust in his vocal chords. “I _do_ trust you, babe. You’ve… You’re... “ Cling shook his head to clear it and tried again. “And I, ahh, I have something for you. Too. I mean. I had it this morning, but there wasn’t like a ring thing. In the… What _was_ that, anyway? Wedding?”

“I think it was.” Phil’s smile was a ghost of warmth and humor, and Clint couldn’t resist brushing his thumb against the corner of it to see if it would grow; it did. “Whatever it was, I guess we’re married.”

“I wish…” Clint stopped, and his stomach twisted with nerves at the confession that nearly slipped out. Phil's fingers tightened on the ring on Clint’s finger.

“Me, too,” he whispered softly, thumb stroking over the band again. He looked up at Clint, smiling but sad. “But.”

Clint bobbed his head in a nervous little nod of agreement and then knocked his chair over bounding to his feet. Phil released his hand in time to avoid any more painful kind of accident, and sat back on his haunches, laughing at Clint’s sudden lack of grace. 

“That thing I have for you! Hang on one…” He fumbled in his pocket, sighing in relief when his hand closed around something smooth and metal, warmed from having been carried so close to his body all day. “So this isn’t like, some piece of fancy tech. And it doesn’t have the same kind of sentimental value as…” He trailed off and rubbed the ring Phil had placed on his finger. “But it’s… well, it’s pretty clearly mine, and I...” He took another deep breath. “I want you to have it. Just as a… I want you to have it.”

Phil had climbed to his feet and circled one arm around Clint's waist before he’d finished speaking, and Clint welcomed the kiss that followed, grateful for a way to shut himself up before he spilled too much more of himself all over the floor. He sank down against Phil’s chest, letting Phil’s strong grip keep him upright. Clint was much more concerned with getting as close as he could than with standing up. He needed to get as _much_ as he could, while there was still time.

“Oh, hang on!” Clint slurred the first word against Phil’s lips, beginning to speak before he pulled away. “Wait, you need…” He caught Phil’s left hand from where it was resting against the side of Clint’s neck, slipping the ring he’d chosen to part with over Phil’s ring finger. “You need this.”

Phil froze, looking at stylistic arrow engraved on the back of the band of silver. Clint wondered if he’d overstepped a line, just shoving it on like that, but, before he could work himself into a fully-fledged panic, Phil looked up with glowing eyes that were swimming in tears. 

“Yeah. I do need this.” He laid his palm against Clint’s chest and looked down again, staring at the ring around his finger. “I really, really do.”

____

The metal was a strange-- but welcome, so very welcome-- weight on Phil’s hand as he smoothed his palm down Clint’s ribs, fingers tracing scars that he’d already explored with his lips and teeth. It bumped against the ridges of Clint’s bones, dragged on the peaks of Clint’s muscles, and every glint in the lamplight stole Phil’s breath. He was lightheaded with it, this feeling of _belonging_ in this moment, in this place, and to this man. He couldn’t tell if it was the lack of oxygen or simply the giddiness bubbling up from his gut, his throat, his groin, that made every detail stand out.

Clint’s neck was golden, lines traced by a trickle of sweat that rolled down beside his ear and sparkled as it crept lower to pool in the hollow of his throat. The edges of the livid bruises Phil had sucked into the thin skin stood out, badges of the possessive heat rising beneath Phil’s ribs. Clint’s head jerked against the pillow as Phil’s teeth pressed into the meat of his trapezius muscle. 

“Fuck, Phil!” He dug furrows into Phil’s bicep and ribs with his fingertips. “Oh, fuck, that’s good! Jesus, you like to bite.”

Phil licked across the mark his teeth had left and pulled back to admire the way the skin was already flushing. “I’m sorry. I can rein it--”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ stop, you bastard.” Clint laughed and looped one bare leg around the back of Phil’s knee, hands slipping against the sweat-slick of Phil’s skin to wrap around Phil’s body and squeeze him close. “I like being bitten, so you just keep it right the fuck up.”

Phil chuckled, sounding far too smug, even to his own ears, and leaned down to catch Clint’s earlobe between his teeth. The silver earring clicked against enamel, and he tasted the metal with the tip of his tongue.

“You gonna just keep trying to eat me, or are we going to get on with this?” Clint asked with a breathy laugh, writhing enough to create a tug on his lobe.

“I was thinking that I can probably manage both,” Phil answered, rolling Clint onto his back and pushing himself up to hover over him. He felt one more wave of sadness looking down into Clint’s wide, warm eyes, and then he told himself to stop thinking of the future and focus on the now. He had a beautiful, sexy, competent, smart, snarky, perfect man under him, and he found he was _really_ needing to heat things up. After one more tender kiss, Phil began to bite his way down Clint’s chest, soothing over existing bruises-- both those he’d left before and those from the ceiling collapse they’d been caught in-- with his lips before ducking down further to nuzzle into the dip at Clint’s incredible hip. “Both is always the best option.”

Just to make certain Clint got his point, Phil sucked him in, riding out the first buck of Clint’s hips, and then just relaxing to let him thrust all the way. This time, this first time tonight, was for Clint. This was for Phil to say _I love you._

Phil pulled off to give Clint one long, deep lick, and then got busy blowing his-- _heh_ \-- mind.

After he’d gentled Clint through the tail end of his orgasm, Phil pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of Clint’s thigh before climbing back up to flop down and share Clint’s pillow. Clint kissed him, and Phil pulled him closer with one leg, letting himself rub gently against the ridge of Clint’s hip, just to take off a bit of the pressure. Just to keep his own pleasure going.

“Gimme a minute, and I’ve got some ideas for that.” Clint smiled sleepily at him. “Mmm, you’re fucking amazing.”

Phil grinned back, giddy and stupid with _want_ , opened his mouth to say something sexy and provocative, and then felt himself flush scarlet when he heard his own voice say instead, “Thank you, come again.”

There was no way to dodge a pillow strike from the World’s Greatest Marksman, and Phil nearly rolled off the bed as Clint laughed and smacked him again.

 

____

 

Clint was grateful he’d gotten off once already, although thinking of _that_ made him shiver and clench down. It would have been utterly impossible to force himself to keep his eyes open, to keep his head from flopping back without the earlier release of pressure, and he didn’t want to miss a moment of this. Phil lay sprawled across the bed, flushed from scalp to naval, and he watched Clint move above him-- _around_ him-- with wide eyes, irises shadow-dark in the dim room and face so full of something like wonder that it made Clint’s chest ache. Clint rocked slowly, shimmying to the dance rhythm thumping in his head, trying to hold Phil off long enough to give himself time to get hard again. 

“If you ever wanna give up the merc gig,” Phil’s voice was tight, but his eyes sparked with a sudden rush of humor, “you could always take those hips to work as a pole dancer.”

“Only one pole ‘m interested in working.” Clint wanted to bite his tongue as soon as the words slipped out. Too much honesty, too much feeling, too many ways to let himself break. Too many ways to break Phil, and _that_ was something he didn’t want to do. To cover his slip, Clint shifted to press one palm to the soft hair of Phil’s chest and planted the soles of his feet on the bed.

Phil wanted a show? Phil was going to get a goddamned show!

The added leverage gave Clint the ability to add more up and down motion to his side to side sway, and he mentally changed tracks on his internal soundtrack to make best use of the position. He wasn’t _actually_ certain how long his thighs would hold out like this, but he was going to take the opportunity to show off the best that he could. He ignored the way his body wanted to shudder at his own sensitivity and focused on the the breathy little noises Phil was making, trying to drag every whisper of pleasure out of him.

Phil’s broad, thick hands wrapping around the backs of his calves, gave Clint’s tortured muscles some relief, providing enough balance for him to deepen each roll of his hips.

“Oh fuck,” Phil breathed, and his face flashed red, eyes rolling up as his legs seized, hips bucking up.

Clint sat back hard, holding Phil as deeply as he could, heart thundering as he watched Phil’s face tighten in ecstasy and then soften into bliss.

_I’m going to remember this moment forever._

Maybe this taking turns thing really was the way to go.

_____

“Shit, Phil!” Clint’s words were slurred by the way his face was pressed into his forearms. “Shit babe, gettin’ close already!” 

Phil pressed his fingertips harder into the divots between Clint’s ribs, watching the skin whiten under the pressure, the tracks glowing silver in the moonlight. He wasn’t sure how long they’d slept after the last time, refusing to look at the clock as he was. He didn’t _want_ to know how much of their night was gone, how close he was to letting go, watching Clint walk away. Forever.

“D-d-di’nt know I-- Oh _fuck_ yes right there!-- _could_ get it up again already. This has got to be some kind of record for a man over-- Lift up just a little, angle-- Yes, there.” Clint’s spine flexed as Phil’s hips stuttered for a moment before he managed to correct and go back to the punishing strokes he’d set before. Clint ribs expanded as he sucked in a long breath and then finished his interrupted sentence in a rush. “For a man over thirty.”

With a breathy laugh, Phil planted one hand between Clint’s shoulder blades, shoving him further down to the mattress to lean forward and bite at the back of his neck.

“Over thirty is nothing,” he growled into the sweaty curls at the base of Clint’s skull. “Look what you’re doing to a man over _forty._ ”

“So is forty the age when you became-- shit shit shit-- perfect?” 

Phil bit his neck again and panted out, “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Clint clenched around him, forcing one hand under his own body as Phil’s breath whooshed out of him. It didn’t take either of them long after that.

____

 

Locking his arms around Phil, squeezing too hard, keeping his lips pressed to the new pink scar on Phil’s forehead-- the scar responsible for Phil’s loss of control the very first time they’d had sex-- wasn’t the most effect method for fucking a man. However, if Phil’s legs, locked tight around Clint’s hips, were any indication, Phil cared less about being fucked and more about being held. If that was what Phil needed, it was what Clint would provide. _Anything_ for Phil. Anything at all, Clint could give him.

The sky continued to lighten beyond the filmy white foam of curtains over the windows, and the cold steel of the oncoming sunrise made every detail of the room, of the bed, of _Phil_ stand out in crisp detail. Clint drew back enough to study the creases around Phil’s eyes, around his lips, the fine lines highlighting the delicacy of the skin and bones of Phil’s handsome face. _Seeing_ overwhelmed him, the way hearing had earlier, before Clint finally relieved himself fully of his ears, getting fed up with having to chase them back into place every time he and Phil shifted positions. Clint closed his eyes and brushed the thin skin around his lips over Phil’s thin swoop of eyelashes. 

If Clint could have any superpower in the world, he would choose to freeze time and stay there, pressed into Phil, wrapped around Phil, _holding_ Phil. Forever.

Phil’s entire body shook once, and Clint felt a trace of damp against his belly. The stuttering clench of Phil around him took him over the edge, and, soon-- _too_ soon-- it was over.

There wouldn’t be time to go again before Clint and Nat had to get to the airport. Not that either of them would have been able to go again, even if they had a day to rest and recover. Clint threw his arm over his eyes as he rolled to his back, hoping Phil wouldn’t be able to see the tears he was swallowing back. Phil chased him over, face pressing into the side of Clint’s neck, and Clint stopped worrying about keeping his own tears hidden. Phil’s shuddery breathing told Clint that in that moment, in those feelings, he wasn’t alone.

____

 

“Are we going to talk about this?” Clint asked, brushing his thumb over the engraved arrows on the ring that decorated Phil’s finger. “I mean, what we’re going to do after…” After what? _After I go home without you. After my heart stops beating but I’m still alive. After you go back to your real life where you have a real home and real friends, and I go back to my half-life where I have Natasha and an apartment that’s probably not fit for human habitation._

Which was not saying that Having Nat wasn’t worth a lot. It was worth everything, really. She had his back. She was his partner and his best friend and his sister, and the only person in the world he trusted with everything he had and with everything he was. Until now. And that was the kicker: Clint had Nat; Nat had Clint; and they’d both already been abandoned by the rest of the world. He wasn’t going to abandon her, not _even_ for Phil. Unfair as hell, but it was how life-- especially Clint’s life-- worked out. 

At least he’d always know that, once upon a time, in a land far, far away, he had a real prince for a little while.

Phil pulled his hand free and looped both arms around Clint’s shoulders, drawing him close. They stood under the shower spray, both too fucked out to try anything remotely sexual. Just holding, standing near one another, not letting go long enough to do more than the most basic of scrubbing up. 

“I don’t… I haven’t…” Phil huffed a sigh through his nose and pressed his face more tightly against the side of Clint’s head. “I’ll give you a card before I go. My _real_ cell number is on it, as well as my office extension. If… if you don’t want to call _me_ about it, the public front office number is on there, too, and they can put you in contact with legal.” Phil chuckled and shifted on his feet, his wet body hair a delicious line of electricity as it slid over Clint’s chest and thighs. “This is actually not the first time an agent has come back married, and there’s a procedure for civilians to, ah, resolve the situation.”

Clint tried not to shrink away, but the words _resolve the situation_ tugged at his already battered heart. With effort, he pushed the thought away, relegating it to the file of _Things to Deal With Never_ and turned his focus back on the slick slither of wet Phil in his arms. 

“We should probably get dressed,” Phil murmured against Clint’s lips, but he didn’t pull away from the kiss, and they lingered under the water until a thumping knock against the room door chased them apart and into robes to let the in the bellhop. He ignored their wet hair and lack of clothing with professional aplomb as he announced their car had arrived and collected their luggage.

Clint went back to dress in the bathroom, unable to watch as the boy dismantled their warm little cocoon of a fantasy.

____

Clint’s shoulders called out to Phil, his hands itching to stroke over the stretched-out leather jacket, to offer comfort and safety. He longed to loop his arms around and cling to the strength of those shoulders. Wanted to press his face into the broad stretch of one of them, let himself be held, let himself dream for just a few minutes longer that this soap-bubble dream could outlast the morning. He kept himself in check, however, ignoring his desires.

Agents of SHIELD did not bow to delusional fantasies.

Phil stayed in his own corner of the elevator on the silent ride to the lobby, pretending to stare at the geometric pattern of the carpet rather than the solid perfection of Clint’s beautiful body. He stuffed his hands into his pockets as they walked together out into the brisk morning air to keep from reaching out to link his fingers between Clint’s, and Clint’s own hands tucked into the pockets of his frayed jeans. Climbing into the backseat of the limo Zeg had sent for them, Phil carefully stayed as near the door as he could manage without fear of getting himself hit by the armrest. 

Basil’s eyebrows quirked curiously, his moustache bristled angrily, and his eyes were full of understanding sadness as he swung the door shut as soon as Phil settled back, and Phil was thankful that Basil had refrained from speaking. Words from Basil tended to hit with almost as much force as he could probably manage with his meaty fists.

Phil’s resolve to avoid touching Clint lasted until the car turned the first corner, and then he slid one hand, palm up, halfway across the seat, sighing in relief as Clint’s knobby, calloused fingers smoothed over it before linking through the spaces between Phil’s. Clint squeezed once, but neither of them looked directly at one another as they continued to stare out their own windows. 

There was nothing left that needed to be said.

____

 

Clint watched the ground drop away under the plane and felt his stomach swoop with the sudden feeling of weightlessness. Or it might have been his heart. Hard to tell, really, given the sudden lightness that had bubbled up in him on the ride to the airport. His fingers tapped a rhythm on his knees, and his toes bumped out the bass inside his boots.

“What’s gotten into you?” Nat asked, voice sharp with suspicion, but Clint just glanced at her and smiled, trying to share the warmth that was bubbling up inside his chest. “What did you say to Phil to leave him looking like _that_ and you acting like _this_?”

Okay, that was a fair point, probably. Phil had looked a little grey around the edges when he’d kissed Clint goodbye beside the car. But Clint hadn’t said anything to Phil. Not out loud, at least. He’d hoped that Phil had understood what Clint meant, when he swept him into a rather PG-13 kind of kiss, trying to say with his lips what he couldn’t say with his… well, lips. In a speaking way, at least. Actions were better than words, right? 

Besides, Clint couldn’t have said anything, then. He hadn’t worked out the final details until he had cleared security and boarded the plane. And now all that was left was to bask in his own happiness. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, basking as hard as he could. It was hard to bask silently with someone glaring holes into the side of your face.

“‘M not gonna divorce him.” Clint spoke without opening his eyes, but he was certain that he could _feel_ Nat blink.

“Pardon me?” Nat’s voice had the flat inflection that made Clint just know she was calling him an idiot with her eyes, but was being too kind to actually say it.

“When I get back. He gave me a number to call to, how did he put it?” Clint finally opened his eyes and glanced over, but Nat was staring at the seatback in front of her, spine absolutely rigid. “To _resolve the situation,_ he said. But there’s nothing to resolve, so I’m just not gonna do it.”

Nat opened her mouth to answer, closed it to swallow, and opened it again. No words came out, so Clint rushed on.

“No, Nat, it’s like… Okay, so he didn’t ever say _divorce_ , right?” Clint bobbed in place again, trying to syphon off some of the electricity that had been tingling beneath his skin since the realization that he would actually be able to have this. “He _also_ never said anything about resolving this himself. So he probably doesn’t want to. And he’s like a superspy, right, so if he changes his mind, he’ll find me. But, so long as I don’t call him or his office, I get to keep him.”

“ _Keep…_ But, brother-mine. You won’t _have_ him if you’re not speaking to him.” Nat blinked rapidly, processing, trying to assimilate or something. Clint wasn’t sure what she was thinking.

“Sure I will.” Clint gave her his happiest smile, trying to temper it a bit at the tightening around her eyes that suggested she wanted to slap someone and that someone was _him_. “Thanks to this whole real name fiasco, I have his name. Kinda liked the old name. Was used to it, anyway. But I _have his name._ ”

Nat blinked once more and then her hand shot up to slam into the flight attendant call button without looking. 

Clint tried not to be hurt at the way she ignored him for most of the flight in favor of steadily working her way through the airplane’s stock of high-quality vodka. 

____

 

Clint remained blissfully manic all the way across the ocean. From the creases around his mouth and the dark-purple smudges under his eyes, he couldn’t possibly have slept much the night before, but he simply _would not_ go to sleep. Nat watched his leg bounce and bob with the energy that practically crackled beneath his skin, and considered removing the restless limb from his body. Sadly, she was wearing her good slacks, and she didn’t want to get blood on them just yet, so she turned to a bit more vodka and decided that Clint’s mood would be tomorrow’s problem. All she needed to do was survive his nervous tension until she got him bundled into their small bed in their crappy little apartment.

Of course, _tomorrow_ turned out to have its own problems. The final details of their newest job rolled in to her new phone via text message before she was awake, and Nat found herself buried neck deep in planning another operation and trying to get Clint to concentrate on the new problems at hand. She’d have to go through dozens of her old associates, taking Clint along to play bodyguard. And at least _that_ was a use for the ridiculous mood he couldn’t seem to shake. 

The smile that lingered around Clint’s lips followed her to every meeting. Sat behind her shoulder and turned from face to face of all the men with whom she met. It was a strange smile, a rictus of determined happiness that could be interpreted to mean anything from _a little bit happy_ to _dangerously deranged._ Nat was fairly certain it fell into the latter category, but she had too much else to worry about to deal with Clint and his temporary, Phil-induced insanity. There were deals to broker for their new boss, accidents to arrange for those who refused to cooperate, and quiet leaks of information to local authorities for those who agreed to her face and tried to sneak behind her back. 

It was a constant struggle not to be distracted by Clint’s hypermania. And yet, there was no way his mood could possibly last. Nat found herself both relieved and resigned to the anguish that would follow when Clint’s mood finally cracked on a Wednesday night.

“I have to go alone, Clint.” Nat kept her face impassive, refusing to be moved by Clint’s puppy-dog eyes. There was one more meeting to finish their first assignment for their new employer. Just one more little task to see to with a former associate that she nearly trusted. The man didn’t trust Clint, however, seeing him as a newcomer in their deal, so Clint would have to stay behind, left alone for the first time since they’d returned to the states.

“But what if it’s _dangerous_?” Clint shifted his weight from one leg to the other, all pent-up energy and rising temper. The restlessness had been building in him, and Nat could tell he was nearing his breaking point. 

Nat raised one eyebrow at him, a silent _Did you really just ask that question?_

“Okay, okay!” Clint held both hands up in front of himself, palms toward her in a gesture of surrender. “I _know_ you can take care of yourself. But what if someone comes up behind you?” Her second eyebrow crawled up to join the first. “I mean… What if you get to hit people? Do I have to just sit here and cool my heels until you get back?”

“You could work off some of that nervous energy doing the dishes and laundry.” She didn’t look around the apartment, barely cleaned since their return. It still needed quite a bit of care to turn it back into the nearly-habitable home it had been before they left.

“Fine, whatever.” Clint turned away with his shoulders sagging in exaggerated melancholy. “I’ll be the hausfrau to your bread-winning manliness.” 

Nat ruffled his hair and kissed his cheek before heading out, trying to hide her uneasiness with Clint’s mood. Something had shifted in him; she’d felt it that morning. Perhaps it was the sudden lack of the boundless energy that had marked him since boarding the plane in Amsterdam. Maybe it was the way the smile had slowly faded from his lips over several days until that very morning showed him bleak and tired, without any sparkle to his eyes. The crash had been coming, but Nat wasn’t sure she was prepared for it _just_ yet.

Four hours after leaving Clint with his hands in a sinkful of soapy water, Natasha returned to their shared home. She was bleeding from a cut on her bottom lip and sporting what would surely soon be a brilliant black eye. The hallway was freezing and cabbage-scented, but she hesitated to open the door. Through the scratched wooden panel, echoing down the hallway, she heard the sounds of pain and suffering, Clint Ba-- Coulson style. He was clearly drunk, warbling his anguish to the night.

_It’s been seven hours and sixteen days… since you took my Phil awayyyyyy…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Pining. So very much pining.
> 
> This would have been up so much sooner had it not been for an ER run last week that turned into emergency surgery and a truly tedious amount of bed rest. But here it is at last.
> 
> Also of note: there is a final chapter count posted! The outline is done to the end, and we're nearly through the story. The final count appears to actually be accurate. I'm not going to give an exact date for posting next, because my life appears to have spun entirely out of my control, and the more I try to make plans, the more it kicks my ass. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me through the drama and the trauma. Happy ending is in sight. Love you all!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is home, and no one is getting on with their life. A few painful reminders from the women in their lives, and both Clint and Phil decide it’s time to start moving on. Everything seems to be getting back on track, until--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: The other half of this chapter (now chapter 20) will be up WITHIN two days, barring calamity, floods, or giant earthquakes swallowing the whole of Oklahoma.

Maria slid over the windowsill to land on the fire escape outside, soundless on her bare feet. She refused to shiver from the cold metal under her toes or the way the chilly night air blew up the bottom of her t-shirt. Agents of SHIELD did not bend to the cold. Besides, after the last two weeks of moping Phil in Amsterdam and the even _worse_ week since they’d been home, she’d have happily born standing on anything from a glacier to hot coals to have a minute of privacy for this call. As a rule, Phil took fairly lengthy showers, but he’d been so erratic that she had given up trying to predict what he would do.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she hissed under her breath. She bounced in place for a moment; maybe she should have taken a moment to steal a pair of Phil’s sleep pants when she had raided his drawers for a shirt long enough to cover her butt. “For fuck’s sake, Jasper, answer your goddamned--”

“Mars? What the hell?” The tinny speaker on the phone turned Jasper’s voice thready and soft, but Maria could still hear his sleep-thick drawl. “I was _sleeping_. Do you know what time it is here? Do you know what time it is _there_!”

"Holy fuck, Jas!" Mars whispered, not trusting a closed door, two large rooms, and a running shower to keep her voice from carrying to the subject of her displeasure. "I can't deal with this. With _him_. With him like _this_."

She knew she was using excessive italic emphasis, but it was _justified_ this time. Extremely so. No hyperbole, all desperation and frantic _meaning_. Not to put too fine a point on it, Phil had lost his shit, and Maria was going to kill him if she had to cope with him much longer. Maybe she’d suffocate him with his pillow when he moaned Barton’s name in his sleep, maybe unload a clip into his chest while he sat in his office, refusing to come out for missions or lunch or even donuts in the goddamned break room.

"You're the one who knows how to handle _feelings_." Maria covered her face with one hand, the other arm wrapping around her waist as she shivered in the dark. "I don't _do_ emotional crises, Jas."

She glanced back into the still-dark apartment behind her to make certain Phil hadn’t ended his shower early just to mess with her. She crouched below the edge of the windowsill to hide from the room, pulling the roomy shirt over her knees, and tucking the hem below the edge of her toes. Jasper yawned and hummed blearily as she caught him up on all the weird that had been Phil in the week since they’d returned to New York from Amsterdam. She couldn’t tell if he caught all her catalogue of complaints and worries, but she didn’t have time to backtrack or explain in depth. Her tone would have to give him the general idea, and she hoped he knew Phil well enough for his imagination to fill in the blanks.

____

Phil leaned his shoulder blades against the glass wall of his shower, one hand clenched around the heavy silver band that hung from a chain around his neck. His other hand moved in a steady rhythm below his hips, creating friction that pulled him slowly toward orgasm.

Behind his closed eyelids, Phil envisioned Clint’s broad, scarred, perfect back spread out before him, flexing with every pump of Phil’s hips. Phil bit his lip to hold in a groan as he remembered the breathy grunts he’d punched from Clint’s throat every time he’d driven home, Clint’s hands clutching at the sheets, at the pillows, reaching for Phil’s wrists while his fingers dug bruises into the sharp edges of Clint’s hipbones. 

Even without the stimulation of his own gun-calloused palm, Phil would have been close from the fantasy alone. Phil tried to hold himself at the edge thinking of Clint turning his face to the side, eyes closed and lashes fanning out across his cheeks. He remembered the tiny tick of a smile to the corner of Clint’s mouth as he breathed out that first soft “I love you” before his lips fell open in a blissful sigh as he shivered apart from nothing but the feeling of Phil inside him and the pressure of the sheet against his burning skin. The memory hit Phil in the heart and the balls at the same moment, and he bit the fist that held his ring, unsure if he was muffling a cry of pleasure or a scream of pain. 

Within seconds, Phil found himself sitting on the water-warmed tile floor, tailbone smarting from his hasty descent as his knees had given way. Tears stung his eyes, and his chest felt raw and empty and hollow. He tipped his face up to the spray, straightening up as far as he could to let the shower rinse away the physical traces of his moment of agonized self-indulgence, both the mess on his stomach and thigh and the tears on his face. He simply sat and breathed, shaky and damp, until the water ran cold and he could blame his shivers on the temperature. 

After more than a week’s abstinence, the physical release should have helped, should have been a relief. Instead, all it did was make the ache he’d been trying to keep at bay settle deeper, harder, colder into his chest. 

Phil reached up to twist the knobs to off and dragged himself out to the bathmat where he wrapped his towel around his shoulders and dripped water-- clean and salt-- onto the bathroom floor. He curled in on himself, grateful that at least Clint would never know how pathetic he’d become, crying his way through an orgasm and mourning the loss of a relationship they both had known they couldn’t keep  
.

____

Clint could still hear the thump of Natasha’s fist against the bathroom door, so he quickly yanked out his ears and tucked them under the edge of a towel on the counter. He had just stepped into the shower when Natasha moved to hitting the wall _beside_ the door, the vibrations rumbling through the tile floor and into his feet, and that was harder to ignore. His towel hung just out of reach, so he shook his hand vigorously to remove the water before grabbing the dial of the stereo perched on the back of the toilet and cranking the volume up another several notches. What he couldn’t hear, didn’t feel, and could fake not knowing about couldn’t hurt him. 

Not like anything could hurt him, just at that moment.

Well, no worse than he already hurt, at least. 

Sinking down, Clint crouched in the bottom of the tub and considered plugging the drain, letting the water fill up around him, warm and safe, to cocoon his body. Something to keep him warm. The alcohol that he’d been relying on had begun to wear off, and Nat had begun standing guard in front of the pantry with a knife out when she decided he’d had enough for the night. Day. Whatever time she decided he’d had enough. It varied, based on when he managed to crawl out of bed (or fall off the couch).

He pressed his eyes against his knees, tucking more tightly into himself as water ran down his back. Wasn’t fair of her, keeping him away from the liquor. All he wanted was a little numbness. Just some way to take the edge off, something to dull the ache under his ribs that intensified whenever he caught sight of the glint of silver on his finger and remembered the way Phil’s hand had trembled as he’d slid it on. He _needed_ something to keep him from collapsing into ash while he waited for the fire in his throat and his gut to burn out. She was probably right about booze not being the best option for coping. But shooting made him remember Phil’s hand on his bow, and Clint was a married man now, so fucking a stranger at a bar was out of the question.

Without lifting his head, Clint fumbled around for his shampoo, and cringed when he picked up a bottle that smelled like Phil: the shower gel Clint had stolen that last morning in Amsterdam, back when he thought he’d want to remember, want to keep it all fresh. Back when he thought he could survive waking up thinking of Phil, going to sleep thinking of Phil, but never actually _having_ Phil in his arms. 

Clint dropped the bottle into the furthest corner of the tub and grabbed his shampoo. He dumped out too much on his first try, but he still wasn’t used to having his hair so much shorter. He’d gotten it trimmed as soon as he’d returned to the States, hoping that he could start to forget if he didn’t have to look at Anton every time he brushed his damned teeth.

The haircut had _not_ helped. All it’d accomplished was to make Clint wonder what Phil would think of his new look, if Phil could still get enough of a grip to pull Clint’s head back and drag that whimper out of his throat.

Clint dropped his head back against his knees, thumping his face down hard, twice, wondering if he could knock the memories out of himself. He scratched at his chest, flinching at the rasp of his nails against the hair around his nipples. His body hair had begun to grow in, blondish and wiry, coarse with the stubble-shortness. The hair was not soft against his palms or silky under his fingertips; it didn’t slide against his thighs the way Phil’s had every time he’d--

_No._

He cut those memories off sharply. His hand hadn’t brought him any relief in two weeks, not since all the fantasizing and masturbating he’d done that first week home. Besides, he was fairly certain he had about five more minutes before the bathroom door got kicked in by an angry Russian. There were some things even Nat didn’t need to witness, and a jerk-off session to the muffled sounds of his own tears and Sinead’s sad wailing pretty much topped the list.

Clint twisted the knob to turn off the water, but he stayed curled into the water-warmed floor of the tub. He wondered, as he did nearly every minute he was conscious, what Phil was doing right then. If Phil was thinking of him. If Phil could be in his own shower, skin heat-flushed pink, eyelashes clumping around the sparkle of his pretty blue eyes. If he was hard and wanting. If he was biting his lip to muffle that sound he made when he--

_Good_ God, _no._

Groaning weakly and trying to ignore what his groin was telling him, Clint dragged himself over the side of the tub, grabbing his towel on the way to his feet. He needed a damned drink, and it was worth risking a few stab wounds. If he could just get drunk enough, maybe he could keep from getting any more erections. 

Ever.

____

 

The stack of files on Phil’s desk had grown exponentially while he was in Amsterdam. Files always did reproduce while he was away, and Phil resented it every time. He was a _field agent_ , not a desk jockey, and yet every time he went into the field, someone back at some base somewhere decided to heap paperwork on him. They snuck it into his office while he wasn’t there to defend his desk. With a morose sigh, Phil flopped into his desk chair and glanced over the top of the stack. 

A few new things had appeared since the night before, and Phil started to wonder if SHIELD had paperwork gremlins, since he’d left late and arrived early. The other explanation, of course, was that the files had finally figured out how to reproduce. Since he’d begun working for SHIELD however, Phil didn’t allow himself to entertain that kind of thought: sentient paper wasn’t the _strangest_ thing he’d ever imagined, and he wouldn’t put _anything_ past the freaks in the lab. They spent most of their time arguing about probability and possibility and creating things that could only grow out of the caffeine-fueled dreams of people with too many degrees and too little time outside SHIELD’s walls.

Phil shook off his musings on lab rats and their questionable life choices, turning his attention back to the heap on his desk. Somewhere far underneath the sliding stack of Mount Migraine, lying neatly in the very center of his blotter, was one Particularly Disturbing File in a special blue folder. The name on the tab had been penned in Phil’s most careful handwriting, but the ink was faded, the corners dog-eared from all the years of hurried additions and revocations, all the times it had been pulled out quickly to have notes scribbled in the margins of the papers inside or on the folder itself. Even hidden, Phil could feel it lurking under all the work that should be delegated to others. It seemed so ordinary for something that could break his heart with a single glance.

Fumbling a hand into his pocket, Phil ran his fingers over the milled edge of the ring that rode on a carabiner clipped to his belt loop. He had to face the file sooner or later, and soonest would be best. He sucked in a breath, preparing to go fast like ripping off a bandage.

He slipped one hand under the front edge of the stack and quickly slapped his other hand on the top of the pile to keep the whole mess from flopping to the floor. He found the soft, folded corner of the file underneath by touch alone, and he sucked in a deep breath before carefully sliding it free. His mouth ran dry at the name written in neat, square letters on the tab.

_Hawkeye_

Phil ran his fingertips over the word, pressing his lips together and wondering if the tug at the corner of his mouth meant that even the name made him want to smile or if he was experiencing the first stirrings of hysteria. He set it in his lap and flipped open the cover and all the air in the room vanished. It took several seconds of choking before he could suck in a breath and find the wherewithal to slap the cover shut and shove the file back toward his desk, trying to get it hidden, get it away from him, before he collapsed. 

Files cascaded to the floor around him, landing with splats and flutters, sprinkling requisition forms and disciplinary actions, mission reports and personnel information across the carpet. The blue file stayed on the desktop, contrary and accusing, halfway tucked under a budget report, the name still fully visible from where Phil sat, and the picture that had nearly given him a heart attack just showing at at the edge of the folder.

Phil squinted at it for a moment before deciding the file had won this round. He heaved another sigh and carefully slid out of his chair, folding as he went, to neatly tuck himself into the knee well beneath his desk. In spite of the cramped space, he managed to fumble the ring out of his pocket and off the carabiner. He pressed it to his lips once before sliding it onto his finger, and then he wrapped his arms around his thighs and dropped his face against his knees.

If he was very quiet and very lucky, it would take several hours for anyone to think of looking for him under his own damned desk.

____

“It’s been so lonely without you here,” Clint sang from the heart, emoting, trying to explain in song what he… probably could have explained without song, if only he could still feel his lips. “Like a bird without a song…”

“Clint!” The door of the closet flew open to show Nat glaring down at him where he sat in a pile of shoes. She folded her arms over her chest and shouted to be heard over the speaker he’d carried into the closet with him. “Come out of there!”

“Tell me baby,” Clint warbled up at her, wondering if she had an answer for the question, “where did I go wrong?”

“About two bottles of Jack ago, dear one,” Nat answered dryly, and the hint of smile on her lips looked more like wishful thinking than happiness. 

“I could put my arms around every boy I see,” Clint refocused his attention the neck of the bottle caught between his fingers before he finished the line in a near-whisper, “but they’d only remind me of him.”

“Dammit, Clint, you can’t just hide and listen to that song for the rest of your life.” Nat sank down beside him, pulling the whiskey from his grip and taking a swallow, shivering at the burn. “Especially the listening to that song part. It’s been a week and a half, and I am going to crack soon. If you don’t turn it off, I’m afraid that it _will_ be the last thing you ever hear before I am morally obligated to kill you and save everyone on the floor from insanity.”

“I miss him, Nat.” Clint told her, admitting it out loud for the first time since they’d boarded a plane to take them far away from the place where Clint had been happy. Nat’s arms looped around his shoulders and pulled, drawing him close enough for her lips to press against his temple. He curled closer, half-tucking himself into her lap. “I _knew_ I couldn’t keep him. From the minute I saw him, I knew I couldn’t keep him. But I wanted him so goddamned badly, I didn’t care. And then he was… He was _Phil_ , and I loved him. I love him! And… I… I miss him. Hurts--” 

His words choked off with a sob, and he realized he was crying, had been crying, probably since Nat sat down. She shifted her grip around his back, pulling him in harder, tighter where she could drape her torso over him and stroke his bicep with one hand while petting his hair with the other. He cried silently under the wailing of Sinead and the steady string of nonsense Russian that Nat spilled over him, and Clint didn’t need to look up to know that Nat was crying for him, too.

It didn’t make him hurt _less_ , being cradled close by his best friend and sister, his partner, the most dangerous woman in the world, but it made the ache bearable. At least for a little while. At least while Nat was there to remind him that he wasn’t alone, no matter how lonely he was feeling. It was just something he had to get through, had to survive.

Clint could accept the hurt, in the end. Phil couldn’t have stayed with Clint, not when he had a job that needed him. When he had friends and a life that that needed him. Clint _needed_ Natasha, and Natasha needed Clint. Over the years, their lives had become so tangled together that they couldn’t survive apart. And, while Clint might have been willing to go into SHIELD, work with Phil, he couldn’t leave Nat behind, and there was no _way_ she was ready to sign herself over to a shady government organization. She might never _be_ ready, given how the first one had broken her.

Phil couldn’t give up his white hat routine, could never walk on the edge of quasi-legality that Clint and Nat clung to, thrived on. So Clint had let him go, knowing that Phil was needed in his own world. That Phil would hurt, but he would survive and thrive and live a life that was full and happy. Clint could let Phil go because Phil couldn’t have stayed, no matter how much he’d wanted to. At least Clint had no delusions about how much Phil had wanted to stay. The ring that weighed on his hand reminded him of wishes whispered in the dark of a closet, in the dark of a hotel room, in the bright sun in front of an airport.

And so he hurt, but at least Clint wasn’t alone. And he knew that wherever Phil was, he wasn’t alone either. It was enough comfort to live on. Had to be.

Clint didn’t know how long he huddled against Nat before she climbed out from under him and killed the stereo. In the quiet that followed, she led the way out of the closet with a tight grip on his hand. Nat’s gentle fingers removed his hearing aids, and then she tucked him carefully beneath the covers on their shared bed. The blackout curtains scraped as she pulled them across the window to block out the late afternoon sun, and the mattress creaked when Nat slid onto the bed beside him, pulling him close and spooning against his back. Her weight against him promised that she would keep him safe, would hold him together for now.

He hoped it would be enough to keep him breathing until breathing didn’t burn so badly.

____

Phil’s knees and back began complaining about his hunched position under the desk by the time he’d been there around half an hour. He didn’t get up. He was a grownup, responsible, badass Agent of SHIELD, but he just needed a minute to gather himself. Somewhere to hide. A kind of rigid pillow fort where no one could find him while he let his emotions get the best of him. 

Reaching up, he felt around the edge of the desk until he found Clint’s file and could draw out the photograph that had replaced the original, grainy surveillance shot that Phil had put in three years before. The new picture was painfully familiar, and Phil couldn’t stop stroking his fingers along the image of Clint’s face as soon as he got it down where he could see it.

In the picture, Clint’s cheek rested against Phil’s, both of them smiling into the camera, both of them soft-eyed and happy. Behind them, Phil could see the wallpaper he remembered from a narrow hallway at the back of a restaurant in Amsterdam. He closed his eyes and pictured the way Anton had led Phil down the hallway to the tiny nook where they’d made out like teenagers against a rack of spare dishes. The picture he now held in his hand had already been sent to SHIELD for facial recognition by then, and they neither one knew they only had minutes left before all their lies came crashing down.

Zeg had rounded the corner, catching them undone (literally and figuratively), and Clint had pulled away and run.

_But he came back_ , Phil thought, rubbing his thumb against the bottom of the ring he had shoved onto his left hand. _He came back to me that time, and the secrets were gone, and I fell in love with_ him _instead of Anton._

He tried to keep himself from even wondering if Clint would come back this time, because Clint hadn’t run in the end.

Neither had Phil sent him away. They had decided together that there was no way to keep each other and to still do their damned jobs, live the lives they had. Clint might have been willing to come in to SHIELD, but Natasha couldn’t join any organization after her experiences in the past. And Clint couldn’t leave her; she was his family, and Clint, as he'd told Phil while they'd wrapped together in a starlit courtyard, knew too well how fragile family could be. Phil knew it, too, leaving him incapable of even _thinking_ of asking Clint to come in without her.

And Phil…Phil had his friends and his work and his life. He had a calling that he couldn’t ignore and a place in the world. There were others who could do his job, but there was no one else who could fulfil his _duty_. Phil was married to SHIELD, first and foremost, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to pry himself out of his office with a crowbar.

Of course, if he didn’t get off the floor soon, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pry himself out from under his desk with a crowbar, metaphorical or actual.

Phil was hidden from all cameras, so he pressed his lips to the picture, right against the corner of Clint’s mouth. Surely it wasn’t too great a weakness to cave to this one little fantasy, just this once. He ran his fingers over the corner of Clint’s eyes and took a deep breath to begin the slow process of unfolding himself. The mess he’d made of the rest of the files needed to be picked up, and he really needed to accomplish _something_ before he headed out for the night.

“Phil? If you’re under your desk or hiding the closet, it’s safe to come out now. Fury's left the building and I scared off the baby agents for you." Maria’s voice floating through the closed door made Phil jump, thumping his head painfully against his keyboard tray. “Seriously, man. You haven’t eaten today, and Jas will kill me if I don’t keep you alive until he's home to mother hen you to death.”

Sighing heavily, Phil stuffed the picture back into the stained, blue file and quickly shoved the whole thing underneath a half-scattered stack of ammo requisition forms before he pushed his chair out of the way and began the excruciating task of trying to get himself back to his feet.

At least he had Maria to keep him from suffering alone.

____

The sky had faded to black and the bed was empty, Nat long gone, by the time Clint swam awake, forcibly dragging himself out of a dream about a gorgeous secret agent with a hot mouth and hotter eyes. Somehow, the hollow place left under his ribs by dreams about the gentle touch of gun-calloused hands made him miss the nightmares that sometimes still lingered from past jobs gone wrong. Hell, a few more days waking up hard in his boxers but too depressed to stick a hand down there to fix it and he’d start missing the dreams about the vicious bastard that claimed paternity of him.

Clint fumbled for the case on his nightstand that held his ears, carefully hooking them in place before he sat up.

“Nat?” he called, scratching his hands over his scalp and cringing at the greasiness of his hair. “Tash? You here?”

His phone lay on the nightstand, plugged in-- a Nat-created miracle-- and the LED flashed green with a new text message.

_Two targets left, and our first assignment for our new boss will be done. I don’t need your help. Job number two starts in a week. Get your shit together. Be ready._

Trust Nat to never pull her punches. 

Rolling off the mattress, Clint stumbled slightly as wavered to his feet. Coffee wouldn’t go amiss. Hell, if he had a week left, he could even afford to doctor the coffee a bit. The whiskey still sat on the floor of the closet where he’d hidden himself away from the world with it the night before, so he grabbed the bottle and dragged himself to the kitchen to get the beans brewing. 

Maybe, if he just stayed numb a few more days, he’d be able to focus on work instead of the lack of warm blue eyes and whispered words of love and adoration.

____

Phil’s apartment felt too large, too empty, too silent as he padded through the rooms in his socks, flipping off lamps and checking his security system and stashed weapons. He’d have been better off with Maria following him home, the way she had every night since they’d returned to the country. He _knew_ his head was too screwed up for him to be alone, especially when he tried to sleep.

The dreams about the downtimes in hotels in Amsterdam or Rotterdam and the ones about the quiet moments at Zeg’s home were good and welcome, of course. And the dreams of a cramped, steaming-hot supply closet and the sweat-slick muscle of Clint against his back were _hot_. He welcomed dreaming about Clint, dripping under the shower and panting as he rode back against Phil’s face, alternately moaning and cursing and begging. Those dreams, he likely would have been better off being alone for, truth be told. More than once, he’d had to sneak silently out of his bed in the greying dawn and stumble to the bathroom to deal with the aftereffects of dreaming about Clint, sex, and sex with Clint. 

The longer he’d been home, however, the more _those_ dreams had faded, replaced with others. Some were familiar and worn down through long years of exposure, even if they still hadn’t lost their ability to terrorize as they played out in his sleeping mind. Remembered gunfights and explosions, when the world was young and so was Phil, with his SO bleeding out from his face, draped over Phil’s shoulders, limp and unresponsive to Phil’s steadily escalating panic. Some were new and painful, sharp images that hadn’t yet worn themselves into a groove in Phil’s psyche: the happy memories of Clint’s body and his smile and the warmth of his touch and his kisses blown apart by an explosion. He could feel the weight of Clint going limp in his arms as they fell through a ceiling, and Phil wondered if _this_ time Clint wouldn’t wake up. 

When those dreams hit, Phil would find himself dragged back to consciousness by Maria’s hand shooting out from the other side of the bed. She held onto him, her touch heavy and grounding on Phil’s shoulder or face, until the fear faded and the sweat on Phil’s neck and shoulders dried and then she rolled close, and he would curl into her arms and sleep until the next nightmare hit. Only once had he been the one to wake her from a nightmare, and she’d laughed at his apologies and offered to try to have more bad dreams, if he was feeling like things were unequal in their friendship.

And now, because he’d lost his temper and been a dick to Mars, Phil found himself home alone for the first time in two weeks. He grabbed a bottle of beer out of the fridge on his way to bed, pausing only long enough to pop the cap off against the edge of the kitchen counter over the trashcan. Walking back to his room, he flipped on a bedside lamp, and crawled between his sheets, settling in for a restless night with Solitaire on his phone and his beer. Without someone to poke him when the nightmares started, he knew that he’d likely wake up screaming. 

He _did_ hope that lovely Mrs. Beaufort next door still wore earplugs to sleep.

The green light that blinked on the phone signalled a new email, and Phil fumbled it around until he woke the screen. Finding nothing more than an inter-office email reminder about an upcoming training seminar, he returned to the home screen and tapped his phone against his lip for a moment, debating with himself. The impulse grew stronger, and he opened his photo gallery, quickly, before he could talk himself out of it. He _knew_ it was a dumb idea, but he scrolled to the picture he’d emailed himself from the phone he’d used on the mission. 

His lips twisted as he looked at the image: the companion shot to the one that immortalized himself in a cheesy dual-selfie with the mighty Hawkeye that now graced Clint’s SHIELD file. In this picture, Clint’s eyes were nearly closed, hooded and happy as he pressed a kiss to Phil’s earlobe. Phil’s own face could only be described as blissful, and his heart ached with the loss of that feeling of contentment. He stared at at it for several long, breathless moments before he dropped the phone to the bed and scrubbed both hands over his face. Groaning, he fumbled the beer bottle off the nightstand and took a deep pull. Being in love with a man he would never see again was one thing, but actually caving to the urge to jerk off to a picture of that man would just be pathetic.

It was time and past that he figured out how to get his shit together, or he was going to fuck up. Well, he’d already fucked up, but next time it might not be something so harmless, so ridiculous as forgetting to take off his wedding ring before he joined Mars for dinner. 

He’d been careless, when he’d finally emerged from his hiding spot under his desk to join Maria for supper, mind still wrapped in the dream of warmth and bliss of Clint’s arms and lips and the husky pleasure of his voice. He’d straightened the files on his desk, collected the tangle from the floor, and carefully slid Hawkeye’s file back into the place of honor on his desk blotter. He’d collected his jacket, and caught a cab to his and Maria’s (and Jasper’s) usual bar. Mars had a beer on the table for him, alongside a basket of cheese fries. It had taken her approximately fifteen seconds from the time he sat down across the booth from her for her eyes to hone in on his left hand. 

“Coulson, have you lost your goddamned _mind_?” Maria had dropped her menu on the table and glared at Phil. “You’re not a jewelry kind of guy, Phil, so you really can’t pass that off as just some kind of decoration. _Why_ are you wearing a wedding ring with--” Maria had grabbed his hand to examine the engraving on the band “--a _clear_ symbol of your fake husband on it?”

Feeling his face flush at being caught out, anger and shame warring in his guts, Phil had pulled his hand out of her grasp and scrubbed both palms roughly over his face. 

“Not fake,” he had told her, voice muffled behind his hands as he peered over his fingertips. “‘S a real husband.”

“Oh, so I have somehow _missed_ the addition of a man to your household?” One of her eyebrows had arched upward, clearly unimpressed. “Seriously, Phil. You need to get that off your hand before you go down to legal for the annulment, or you’re going to find yourself sent to psych for a Stockholm eval.”

“Can’t be annulled.” Phil had tried so long to avoid explaining, but he’d known he was caught then. “I wasn’t forced or under duress, and I knew what I was doing when I signed the contract. We’re certainly not underage, and we consummated the hell out of it that night, so there’s no way to claim sexual disfunction. None of the other grounds really apply, so no annulment.” 

“Divorce then.” Maria had shrugged like the method of leaving Clint, leaving himself exposed to the possibility of _hurting_ Clint, losing the last piece of each other they still held, meant nothing before she collected her menu and perused her supper choices. “Whatever you have to do. You can’t go on like _that_ , though. It’s… Phil, it’s _delusional._ He’s gone. I wish… I wish it could be different for you, but he’s a merc. Sometimes an actual criminal. And, Phil, you’re actually, _literally_ the Man. You _can’t_ wallow in some fantasy world where Barton is just going to waltz back into your life somewhere down the line, and you’ll just… be married.”

Phil had felt himself crumbling inside, because that was _exactly_ what he hoped for. His innermost wish, the thing he’d daydreamed about to survive the previous three weeks, was that he _would_ find Clint again. That Clint would swoop back into his life, all electricity and sunlight, and they would pick up where they left off. Phil had sucked in a deep breath to respond, and something petulant and furious woke in his chest, dragging him to his feet, and making him spit vitriol at Maria.

“What’s between Clint and I is not a fantasy, Mars. If it was, we’d have gotten our happy ending. Although what would _you_ know about being in love?” Phil snarled his answer, hardly making sense and barely coherent in his anger. “You’d have to quit sucking SHIELD’s goddamned dick and grow a human heart first!”

He had _loomed_ over her as he shouted before he’d turned and stomped out of the diner without looking back.

Two hours later, sitting alone in his bedroom Phil felt very small and incredibly ashamed of himself. Maria had been there for him through so much of his adult life, and she’d been there for him through his heartbreak this time, too. She was one of his two closest friends, and Phil had acted like an asshole. She hadn’t said a thing that wasn’t true-- he _knew_ he been living in a dream-- and he was self-aware enough to admit that his anger had been because she was right. 

Phil picked his phone up from the sheets and closed the photo. He opened a new text message and tapped at the keyboard.

_I was an ass. Harder to get over this than I expected. Shouldn’t have taken it out on you._

He had an uncomfortable two minutes, during which he finished his beer a little too quickly for wisdom. He wondered if he’d hurt or or pissed her off enough for her to ignore him this time-- it was what he deserved for his outburst. He was contemplating crawling out of bed for another beer when Maria’s reply came through.

_Unlock the window so I don’t have to deal with your neighbors thinking I’m your hooker. Again._

Ten minutes later, Phil was tucked in for the night with Maria curled up on the far side of the bed. She watched him in the dark, her eyes wide and shadowy. They lay there for several long minutes, long enough for Phil begin to drift, until Maria’s voice snapped him awake to apologize for what she had said at the bar. He shook his head and opened his mouth to admit that she’d been right, when she cut him off. 

“I know you miss him, Phil.” She reached out to rest her fingertips against his shoulder. “I’m not good with emotions, and I just… I hate seeing you hurt. I wish I could make it better.”

He’d wiggled closer to her and sighed contentedly when she shifted her head from her pillow to his chest. Yeah, with a friend like her, he could get through this, too. He could and he would, and he’d start with clearing the files off of his desk in the morning-- all of the files. Even _that_ one. SHIELD and Maria needed him. Until Jasper finally made it home from his lazy little cruise at Zeg’s side, there was no one else Phil trusted to actually watch Mars’s back during missions. 

He had a job to do, and he’d spent long enough hidden away with his broken heart.  
____

The silence on the other side of the apartment door rang through the hallway, and Natasha paused with the key in the lock. She figured there were fifty-fifty odds on whether Clint had passed out on the floor or been beaten to death by one of their neighbors finally getting fed up with listening to the World’s Most Annoying Breakup Song. A solid week of Sinead could probably drive even the gentle Mrs. Kopinski to murder. She huffed a frustrated sigh and quickly released the deadbolt.

The living room smelled of coffee and cheap liquor, but not of blood, and there was no sign of a half-dead Clint on the floor of the living room or the cheap vinyl tile of the kitchen. He wasn’t in the shower or the bed, and she quickly checked the closet to see if he’d made a nest of designer heels again. Still not immediately seeing him, Nat walked back to the living room to start the search over.

“Why’d he do it, Nat?” Clint’s muffled voice came from the direction of the sofa. 

Nat examined the pile of blankets on the couch, peeling up several layers to uncover a Limp Clint, greasy and dejected and pressed deep into the sunken cushions, a pillow over his head. He rolled onto his side and blinked up at her as the pillow fell onto the floor. She blinked back at him just as solemnly for a moment, until he sighed.

“Hi.” She reached down and gently patted his shoulder.

“Hi.” He looked like he was trying to smile, but the side of his face went wonky on the way and it came out as more of a grimace. “Why’d he _do_ it?”

“Why did who do what?” She forced herself to keep her voice light as she slipped over the back of the sofa to curl against his stomach, trying to breathe lightly against the brewery-drenched smell of Clint’s breath. There was only one “he” Clint could possible mean, but there were a lot of things she couldn’t begin to explain about his behavior.

“Phil. Why’d he marry me, give me a ring, give me his _name_ , and then go away and leave me?” Clint nuzzled into Nat’s hair, snuffling as he curled closer. “Why’d he have to love me if he couldn’t keep me? Why’d he have to be so damned perfect that I had to love _him_? ‘Snot fair, Nat.”

“Life isn’t fair, Clint.” Nat patted his hand as he slid it around her side and pulled her more tightly to him. She relaxed backward against his chest, warming at the realization that, unfair as life could be, she still had her partner. That was a most unfair fact, because she was certain she’d never done anything good enough in life to deserve his loyalty. “You _know_ this, dear one.”

“But if he meant it, Nat…” His hair rasped against the scratchy fabric of the couch as he shook his head. “If Phil _meant_ everything he said, if he really wanted me that much--” He cut himself off with another sigh. “Life should be fair for Phil. Phil deserves to have the things he wants.”

“So do you.” Nat pulled free to sit up, frowning down on Clint and threading her fingers into his limp hair. “ _So do you._ But life doesn’t work like that. I wish it did. For _you_ , I wish it did.”

Clint closed his eyes and curled up tighter, his face pressing into Nat’s thigh as he did.

“Should,” he declared, muffled and petulant. “Just once, someone should get a happy ending.”

“Mine isn’t nearly as unhappy as it would be without you,” she told him softly, tracing her nails gently over his scalp. He twisted his neck and looked up at her with one bleary eye, and she smiled back at him as his face again twisted into the sad facsimile of smile.

He sighed once more, and tucked his face back against her leg, and Nat sat very still until his breathing shifted into wuffling snores. Gently, she shifted him further onto the couch and tucked his blanket more tightly around him. First she needed to change the sheets on the bed, then she needed to convince him to be awake during daylight hours, and then she needed to get him showered, fed, and out of the house.

She’d left Amsterdam preparing for a Clint Collapse, but she had never thought it would be this complete. Still, no matter how his heart was hurting, she couldn’t leave him like this-- rotting away in their shabby little apartment-- for another day. They had work waiting for them; a job that promised a steady paycheck, an air of respectability, and a chance to stay on Clint’s preferred side of the law. She hoped that those tantalizing offers would be enough to lead Clint back out into life. She did _not_ believe they would be enough to put his broken heart together. 

That was clearly shattered beyond repair.

____

When Phil unlocked his office the next morning, the stacks of files and the unending paperwork heaped on his desk sulked at him, hostile and brooding. His resolve wavered as he eyed the stacks and heaps and sliding piles, but he told himself to grow a goddamned spine and get to work. He needed to finish two reports himself, but the files could be passed on to other agents or sent back to his own secretary to be filled out and filed. Almost all of the files. 

Barring one, of course. 

Phil sighed and picked up his pen, reaching under the heap, unerringly accurate on the first try, to pull out his piecemeal notes on the infamous Hawkeye. The whole thing would be significantly more complete after he was done.

Under languages, he added Russian and American Sign Language to the current listing of English, French, and Romany. Thinking of Clint’s absolute lack of accent when he spoke Russian, Phil sighed at the missed opportunity to have Clint murmur in his ear in French while fucking him. It was a _nice_ little fantasy, and Phil had to forcibly jerk his mind back from a overwhelming image of calloused-roughened fingers flicking at his nipples while a rough voice growled filthy things in his ear.

He _had_ to get through with this file, every page. It was time to pack away his daydreaming at work, the wistful sadness that haunted him everywhere he went. When he finished this one bitter task, he would be able to stop hiding under his desk with his wedding ring and his battered heart and his foolish wish to see Clint just one more time. Just one little file to finish, and his life could go back to normal. 

He suspected he was lying to himself, but a big part of his job was manipulating facts to fit a cover story, and he was damned good at his job.

Identifying marks came next, and Phil resolutely refused to think of back dimples and light brown nipples, the flushed skin of Clint’s erection, or the flavor of his ass. Instead, he noted the double piercings in each ear and a couple of the more notable scars, not allowing himself to linger on memories of how they felt under his fingertips and tongue. 

The section for combat skills appeared fairly complete, but Phil lingered over it for a moment, picturing the flex of Clint’s arms. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could remember how Clint’s chest had shifted against his back during the impromptu archery lesson. He could still smell the gunpowder in Clint’s hair and the sweat of exertion during the mission, and he opened his eyes to add a wry note about Hawkeye’s lack of skill in bomb defusing. 

Flipping one more page, Phil froze, unable to take a full breath around the lump in his throat and the knot under his ribs.

_Marital Status._

Phil dropped his pen, shaking so badly that it missed the edge of his desk entirely. Hot, salty tears stung the back of his sinuses, and he slapped both hands over his face, pressing his fingers to hie eyelids. He was an Agent of SHIELD, a badass in his own right, husband to one of the most dangerous men in the world. He wasn’t going to break down and _cry_ over one goddamned file. 

After a couple of deep breaths to contain his emotions, Phil straightened his spine, smoothing his tie and shooting his cuffs. He reminded himself that he could do this and leaned down to fish the pen out from under his desk. He licked his lips as he rested the ballpoint against the page. With another deep breath, he slid his left hand into his trouser pocket, fingers hunting for and finding the ring on its hook. His handwriting wobbled as he wrote, only slightly off from his usual precise penmanship.

_Married to Phillip J. Coulson, Senior Agent of SHIELD._ He filled in the date of their wedding, and the ink smudged on his fingertip as he stroked the numbers.

Phil straightened the pages and turned back to the photo at the front of the file. Clint’s easy smile stared up at him, and he brushed his thumb along the line of Clint’s cheekbone. His vision swam for a moment, going foggy and wet behind salty tears, and Phil closed the file before he left tear stains on the documents in his lap. With one more steadying breath, Phil folded his hands on top of the file and closed his eyes. 

All he needed was a moment to compose himself, and then he would change his own hard copy file as well as his personnel file on the computer. Digitally, at least, his spouse would only be listed as Classified Level 7. Just two more lines on two more forms, and his self-imposed field exile would be over. He could get back to work, knowing that he would never be ordered to go out against his husband. Even if he somehow _did_ encounter Clint in the field, there would be no penalties for Phil ignoring orders to arrest him. Or kill him.

Just two more documents and Clint would be safe from Phil, so long as they both shall live. If only Phil could guarantee that Clint would be safe from SHIELD, and that Phil could be safe from SHIELD using him to find Clint. If only Phil could protect him and have him, too.

____

“Tomorrow, Clint.” 

Clint blinked awake to find Nat leaning over the couch, shouting very close to Clint’s face so that he could hear her without his ears in. He wasn’t sure when his ears had been taken _out_ , mind, but he figured that was one more miracle Natasha had performed. However, working around his hearing difficulty put her far _too_ close for the state of his breath following the determined drunk he’d had going for nearly three weeks, for damn sure. 

The apartment was lighter than it had been the last time he’d been awake, so Clint supposed it was morning. He had no idea what time Nat had come home and petted him until he’d gone to sleep, but it couldn’t have been too many hours before, since he still felt the sticky buzz of the alcohol under his skin. Nat straightened up, watching him with narrowed eyes, and he tried to shake his head to clear it. Moving was a _remarkably_ bad idea, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, shoved Nat aside as he heaved himself to his feet, and raced toward the bathroom to indulge in his morning vomit.

Nat leaned in the doorway and watched him in the mirror, waiting for a break in his retching before she signed.

_You_ will _be sober tomorrow._ Her hand snapped the words, fingers punching the air, and then she waited while he went through another round of being sick before signing again. _I have a meeting in one week. You are going. You will be steady and able to shoot straight._

He nodded weakly at her, and she returned the nod, satisfied that she’d made her point, and then she slammed the door hard enough for him to feel the rattle in his aching head. Being deaf should get a person out of hangovers. That should be a rule.

Nat was right, though: it was time to get past the twenty-four hour drunk. It probably wasn’t healthy to have accepted a morning routine that included retching up the previous night’s leftover alcohol to make room for fresh. He grabbed his toothbrush and a tube of paste on his way into the shower. Behind the curtain, he started the water, standing under it fully dressed as he scrubbed at his teeth. When he was certain he’d gotten most of the fuzzy-sock feeling off his teeth, he spat at the drain, added more toothpaste, and resumed brushing. And then again. And again. 

When he’d used a solid quarter of the tube, Clint flipped the paste and brush over the curtain rod, aiming for the counter, and then he began peeling off his now soaked clothing, leaving it in a sodden heap in the back of the shower as he grabbed a bath puff and the shower gel he’d swiped from Phil their last morning together. His eyes burned with tears as he inhaled the scent of spice and vanilla that swirled around him in the humid air, but he refused to change to his usual cheap bar soap, refused to curl himself into ball to protect his tender underbelly. 

Phil had thought Clint strong enough to handle the loss, and Clint would _not_ let him down. Even if Phil never knew, Clint would _be_ strong and brave, and he’d get used to the knowledge that his heart had gone walking off into the world without him. And maybe someday--

He cut that line of thinking off before he could fade into a daydream. 

His hair required three shampoos before he felt confident that he really was clean enough to be considered human again. Closing his eyes, he tilted his face up into the flow from the shower head, letting the hot water wash over his face. Between the smell of _Phil_ all around him and the touch-sense memory of that same smell in another shower, Clint felt heat slowly building in his gut. He licked his lips and drew up an image of Phil’s smile, the sparkle in his eyes.

Clint reached down to palm himself lightly as he slowly added to his mental image of Phil. He stroked his fingers all the way up from his balls, thinking of freckles on shoulders and the hard swell of beautiful biceps. Tension that Clint had barely been aware of carrying bled out of his spine while he stroked himself lightly, right hand slipping up through the water on his ribs until he could flick at his nipple with one nail. His breath caught in his throat, and Clint looked down to watch his hand as he began to stroke with more intent, tightening his grip and letting hips sway into motion. 

The light over the tub glimmered on the ring on his left hand as he twisted his wrist to add another layer of sensation, and Clint smiled. He could still clearly picture Phil slipping the ring onto Clint’s hand the first time, when it was nothing more than a comm link and a diversion while Natasha removed a hostile. He remembered how heavy it had felt on his hand while he’d rubbed against Phil’s sweat-slicked body in the supply closet, fucking Phil to orgasm. In Clint’s mind, Phil’s orgasm face faded into the look he’d worn that last night, the _reverence_ as he slid the ring onto Clint’s finger again, his mouth promising that the ring was safe while his eyes promised that it was more than just a souvenir. 

Clint’s orgasm rolled through him like a warm wave of electricity. For a long time after, he leaned into the tiles, breathing deeply as the sparkles cleared out of his vision and the shivering of his knees settled down. He rinsed his mouth once more, turned off the water, and threw open the shower curtain.

The toothpaste lay on the scratched tile floor, and Clint’s toothbrush had landed, bristles down, in the bottom of the sink. Aim appeared to be a _little bit_ off. He _really_ needed to sober his dumb ass up, before he lost all his skills and there was no one left to take care of Natasha.

____

Phil left his office with his arms full of files and a swagger in his step. It seemed a more Agent Coulson thing to do than what he really wanted: open the office door, fling files into the hallway, and shout for someone to deal with the damn mess. He pasted a bland smile on his face as he walked into the secretaries’ cubicle farm and starting dropping stacks on desks as he made his way through the maze, murmuring instructions as he went.

“Check page two against regs… Tell Shapiro to double-check his requisition authority… I don’t even know what these are or why they were on my desk. Fix it… These need to be shunted to the quartermaster… Janice, I just-- I don’t even know…”

Everyone greeted him with wide, quickly averted eyes as he passed, greeting him with a generic “Agent” and obviously-faked looks of disinterest. Phil tried not to laugh at them. He wondered how long it would take for someone to simply ask him outright what had happened in Amsterdam.

The bruises had faded from his face, as had the pipe scar (damn Portier and his goon squad all to hell), but the office staff had seen him when he’d first returned, limping and exhausted, angry and withdrawn. The nonclassified portions of the file on the Amsterdam mission had likely been accessed and discussed with great enthusiasm. Because of their failure to retrieve the missing plans or make an arrest in the theft, the mission was listed as a failure, and Phil could already imagine the rumors that had started. 

Legend held that Agent P. Coulson _never_ failed an objective. It wasn’t exactly a _fair_ assessment, since things went ass-up all the time around SHIELD, no matter _who_ was running the mission. And maybe Phil had a better track record than most. But most SHIELD agents didn’t get set up with their paperwork crush, fall in love, and then get a hotel blown up around them.

Phil alternated between loving and hating his goddamned job.

He made a mental note to get his PA alone sometime soon and demand to know who was saying what, find out which rumors were wild enough to be encouraged. SHIELD ran on gossip, and manipulating the rumor mill was Phil’s favorite form of recreation.

He thought of Clint and laughter and targets in the sun, and held back a sigh. Apparently the rumor mill had become his _second_ favorite form of recreation. 

Phil rounded the last corner in cubicle hell and barely managed to stop his forward motion before crashing into Maria. She blinked at him, blinked at the much-reduced stack of files in his arms, and then blinked at his face again.

“You’ve come out then?” she asked lightly, taking the next several files to hand them off to Ricky from HR, whose desk was closest to the main hallway. 

“Those are marked for further training,” Phil said to him before looking back to Maria. “I did,” he told her seriously. “Back when I was about seventeen.”

Ricky snorted a laugh that he tried to turn into a cough before muttering something about getting them entered quickly. He looked up with a smile, face still pink around the edges from his abortive attempt at subtlety. “And it’s good to see you back in one piece, sir. We heard something about you being trapped by the Black Widow? I’m glad she didn’t kill you.”

Maria huffed quietly, and Phil glared at her before answering.

“Her webs are very strong,” he said lightly. “It’s good to be back, Ricky.”

Maria watched him heave himself out from behind his desk and scurry away down the hall before turning back to Phil and raising an eyebrow. Phil ignored her and dumped the last of his files on his own secretary’s desk with a sheepish smile. Betsy rolled her eyes at him and immediately began to sort the files into stacks.

“Ready to get back in the field then?” Maria asked as she fell into step beside Phil on the way to the only break room that had decent coffee. 

“It’s time,” Phil answered, and she bumped her shoulder into his. 

“Not gonna pick up any pretty boys on the next mission, are you?” Maria was clearly aiming for teasing and just as clearly missed by a mile. 

“Not picking up anybody, Mars.” Phil stopped walking and squared his shoulders. “I’m _married_.”

“Okay.” Maria’s eyebrows drew together, but the corner of her mouth ticked up slightly. “You really suck at the honeypot gig, anyway.”

Phil smiled at her and nodded. “Right. Apparently I go and get attached to informants.”

 

“You didn’t _have_ to give attachment such a literal meaning, Phil,” Maria turned to resume walking toward caffeine. “But you wouldn’t be you if you did things by halves.”

She still didn’t _approve_ , Phil could tell, but she seemed to have _accepted_ , and that was good enough. He pondered ways to express his gratitude, but couldn’t find words, so he simply handed her the first cup of coffee when they reached the pot.

“So there’s a drug running op in Key West,” Maria said, accepting the cup. “Something designer that seems to be making people kill their friends and family. Wanna get out of here, go somewhere warm for a few days?”

“Yeah,” Phil said, wrapping his hands around his own cup. A few days away from home and the office dealing with straightforward bad guys would be a fantastic distraction from the morose thoughts that had kept him trapped inside his own head for the past week and a half. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

____

The first attack came without warning. Clint had barely stuck his head out of the locker room when he found himself on his back, both arms flung high to protect his face from the fists that hammered relentlessly at him. He sighed, braced one bare sole against the smooth laminate floor and shoved, flipping his opponent off his ribs and letting himself roll to his feet.

“Really, Barton,” Nat drawled at him, stepping lightly as she edged to his right. “You’ve gotten slow.”

 

“Nah.” Clint grinned wolfishly, letting his hips and shoulders go loose and easy as he stepped toward her to keep from being crowded against the mirrored wall. “Your arm’s just healing finally.”

A pained look flickered across Nat’s face, there and gone in a flash, and Clint followed up her momentary distraction with a strike toward her face. She caught his wrist and rolled, flinging him over her head and into the side of a weight bench.

“Dammit, Romanov!” He dragged himself painfully upright, wincing at the new bruise that would quickly bloom over his kidneys. “I thought you wanted to get me back in shape, not outright _kill_ me!”

“Oh! Baby brother has a booboo!” she taunted, and Clint squinted at her before launching himself bodily at her, counting on size to do what he didn’t have the speed to manage.

He found it slightly difficult to feel actual _gratitude_ for Nat finding a gym that didn’t mind if they used it off-hours (or mind them half-trashing the place in their impromptu battle royale) while Nat mopped the floor with him. At least, Clint _hoped_ that the owners didn’t mind. He winced at the crash of some kind of fancy-ass machine when he managed to kick Nat off of his leg with enough force to topple the small metal tower she’d pinned him against. She’d said something about being owed a favor when they unlocked the front door, but Clint wasn’t sure that anything less than a dead mafia boss enemy could make up for the kind of destruction they were wreaking across the room.

Nat’s eyes narrowed, and she surged at him with a roar. Clint forgot about favors and payment in favor of focusing on keeping all his limbs comfortably attached to his body. The smirk of approval Nat gave him as he managed to flip her across the top of the reception desk warmed him to his toes, and he turned off all brain function not related to kicking her ass.

The water in the showers flowed hard and extra-hot, and Clint sighed blissfully as it washed over his skin, soothing kinks out of his back and shoulders and relaxing the elbow he’d wrenched as he caught a kick Nat threw at his head. He stretched his neck, chin tilting down to let the heat and wet spread down his across the back of his shoulders and trail down his spine. The chain around his neck glinted in the steam-clouded light, and Clint reached up to brush his thumb over the ring that dangled over the growing hair on his chest. 

_Huh_ , he thought. _Made it two whole hours without thinking about him._

As much as it hurt to do so, Clint considered that an improvement. He didn’t _want_ to forget Phil, _couldn’t_ forget Phil, but he had to be able to function, at least a little bit, without cracking and crying and drinking to forget.

Besides, Nat had threatened to kill him if she had to hear the lovely and plaintive Sinead singing _that stupid fucking song, one more fucking time._

Slipping the ring between his lips to suck on, Clint turned his attention to finishing his shower quickly: Nat had promised pancakes as a reward for getting out of bed.

After catching a solid four hours of sleep, Nat dragged Clint to the range to work on his aim. She slapped his bow case into his hand before moving down several lanes to play with her own toys. On the cab ride over (there was no way either of them were going on the subway carrying all that they were carrying), she’d informed him that this was their new schedule. At least for the next week or so. At least until their next job started for real.

Clint opened the case, drawing his bow and flipping open the collapsing mechanism that he’d designed nearly a decade before. Stark Industries was the first place he’d ever found with the capabilities to manufacture a prototype, and his girl was born. Three years after he’d first taken her in hand and brought down a human trafficking ring, he’d found out that she was put together by Tony Stark, the man himself. Clint hoped he’d get to meet Stark someday. Just to say thanks for the bow and the ears that his labs worked on (using Clint as their guinea pig, which was just fine, since it got him the hearing aids for free) and the weird little electronics that Nat sometimes brought home from her super-secret SI contact. 

The first draw was a breath of air after being shut in a vault, a cold drink following a walk across the desert, like the first kiss from Phil after that bitter week apart. Clint choked and relaxed his arm, lowering the arrow to keep from accidentally releasing it into the ceiling or partition or his own foot. For one moment, he was assaulted with the sense memory of Phil’s back against his own chest, sweaty t-shirts dragging together as Clint’s hands carefully steadied Phil’s arms. That frozen moment was followed by the memory of Phil’s overheated skin slipping against Clint’s chest, ribs heaving for air, as they fucked hard and deep and too, _too_ good in that stuffy little supply closet. 

Clint’s knees began to tremble, and he _knew_ what he’d think of next, unable to bite back the images that had seared themselves onto his nerves.

That time it wasn’t Phil’s back against him; they lay chest to chest. But the grip of Phil’s body around him had felt familiar. Safety. Love. Home. Forever. Words Clint had never bothered to _think_ before, all wrapped up in Phil’s arms and lips and panting breath.

All wrapped up in the moment of goodbye.

Clint collapsed his bow, putting her away with tender hands, and then he flipped open the back of the case to pull out his throwing knives. It’d been awhile since he’d played with them at all, and at least the archery butt could take the force of their blades and his discontent. He reared back his hand and flung. And flung. And flung again, desperately trying to fill the hollow in his chest with the calm he’d found while sparring with Natasha during the small dark hours of the earliest morning. When his elbow and wrist began to complain, Clint shifted to his guns, letting the aim… fire… aim settle into his bones and his breathing. 

The next morning at the gym, Nat brought out the swords, grinning playfully at Clint as she tossed him a pair, and he tried to let his eyes show his gratitude. Phil had never seen him with his swords, had never touched their grips or felt their perfection of balance. There, at least, body dancing under the flashes and blurs of their deadly blades, Clint didn’t have the reminder of calloused hands and scorching kisses. Clint lost himself in the thrust, slash, parry, deflect of keeping Nat from removing his head while doing his level best to keep himself from accidentally peeling strips of skin from her. 

At the gym that day, he drew his bow, breathed through the initial tremble, and released his first arrow since their return from Amsterdam. The knots in his shoulders relaxed as the point sank deep into the target, dead in the center of the bullseye. He shot until his fingers tingled even through the fingertip gloves, until his arms were trembling, until his back ached perfectly. Until the release of the arrow and the perfection of his aim was its own reward and no longer related to the touch and taste and smell of Phil.

By the end of the week, he found he could make it four hours at a time without thinking of Phil. And, if he still spent his dreams wrapped up in Phil’s arms, if his showers all included memories of burning eyes and a soft tongue, well, that was his business.

He could at least _function_ outside the apartment again, and that was good enough for Clint. It might be a little bit lonely, but at least he had something that resembled a life again. He could make do with that: work and memories. The missing-limb gap of Phil’s absence didn’t so much vanish as recede into something he could learn to work around.  
____

Phil found himself humming under his breath as he slouched in his desk chair nineteen hours after his return from the near-tropical storm conditions of the Florida Keys. His black eye was already fading to green, and he was _reasonably_ certain he would have full mobility on his left elbow within the week. It was a nearly sunny morning in New York, and the irony sat in Phil’s belly like a good meal with every dish prepared just the way it should be.

Maria’s promised “few days” in “someplace warm and sunny” had turned into a bit over a week of pruned fingers and clammy clothes, but they’d done good work. Turned out that the drug runner they thought they were chasing was actually a kingpin in a ridiculously over-hyped cartel. With the correct information going in, Phil and Mars would have had him arrested, processed, and in a SHIELD detention facility within hours. Phil could barely _wait_ for Jasper to get home and get back to his usual job: _he_ would never have missed the holes in the information packet. 

Clearly, it was time to set up some more training for their full-time analysts. Phil picked up the office phone to make a few calls. Jasper was due home that afternoon, and word about upcoming teaching duties would be the _perfect_ welcome home present. The little shit deserved it, after getting to cross the Atlantic on a nineteen day luxury cruise. Phil would even be willing to bet that Zeg hadn’t made Jasper and Basil sleep in the employee quarters.

“Morning, Coulson.” Fury stuck his head around the door into Phil’s office. He scowled for a moment when Phil shot to his feet before squinting his one eye at Phil’s face and then barking out a laugh. “Jesus, Phil. Will you _ever_ learn to protect your head?”

“Of course not, sir.” Phil kept his face bland, giving a single benign blink. “You always did say my head was too hard.”

“You’re going to soften your brains if you keep getting beaned. Someone get a lucky punch in?”

Phil gestured toward his face. “This? Oh no. Mars just needs to slow the hell down and learn to aim for enemies and not her teammates.”

Fury lifted an inquiring eyebrow, and Phil fought to control his own laughter that threatened to bubble free.

“She needed to tell me something, so she burst into the bathroom while I was getting ready,” Phil explained. “First morning there. Door caught me in the eye.”

“Have you filled out a friendly fire report?” Fury asked, the corner of his lips twitching. 

“Not yet.” Phil let himself grin wickedly. “I’m saving it for when I need a really _big_ favor from her.”

Fury roared with laughter as he sauntered casually into the room, letting the door click shut behind him. Phil started to let his guard down, deciding that he wasn’t about to get reamed for fucking his cover, getting married to an unaffiliated combatant, or hiding in his office for two weeks upon returning home. He’d just unbuttoned his jacket and flopped back in his chair when Fury sank into one of the chairs in front of his desk, boots kicking up onto the desktop. His boss never made himself comfortable unless he was making other people _un_ comfortable. Phil schooled his face against his sudden nerves and buttoned his jacket, sitting up more stiffly in his chair, elbows resting on the armrests as he laced his fingers in front of his belly.

“What can I do for you, sir?” Phil was pleased with how even his voice sounded, calm, as if he didn’t know all of his boss’s tells.

“Just wondering how _you’re_ doing, Cheese.” Fury’s single eye was sharp and bright, and Phil tried not to wiggle under that all-seeing gaze. “Heard you had a rough time after you got back.”

Phil did not curse Maria aloud, but only because he couldn’t figure out where to start. Instead, he heaved a sigh and unbuttoned his jacket again, leaning back against the ergonomic leather. 

“It _was_ rough,” Phil admitted, playing with the end of his tie. He watched himself flip the point of silk back and forth between his fingers. This was Nick asking as friend, not Fury assessing an agent, and _Nick_ deserved the truth. “Took me a little time to… to deal with the paperwork from the mission.”

Fury snorted, and Phil glanced up to see him raising one skeptical eyebrow. 

“Right, Phil. Paperwork. You _hate_ paperwork, and you don’t let it build up.” His boots thumped to the floor as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Looked like papermill threw up on your desk for a coupla weeks there.” He raised one hand to forestall Phil’s excuses. “It’s okay, Cheese. I get it. I really do. I want to know how you’re doing with everything _now_.”

“I’m good, sir.” Phil said slowly, honestly. “Doing better. It was good to get back out in the field.”

“You did good work in Florida.” Fury’s praise was always understated and _always_ sincere. “You and Hill, both. Up for an adventure?”

The abrupt change of pace left Phil mentally reeling for a moment, but, after he blinked once to collect himself, he found himself leaning forward, heartrate kicking up with anticipation.

“Always ready for that, sir.” Phil licked his lips. “What do you have in mind?”

“My--” Fury cut himself off sharply and scowled. “Lover? God no. Life-mate is even worse. Phil, what the hell do I call Zeg now, with them moving here?”

Phil required three blinks before his brain caught up with the change of topic that time, and he took another three blinks to answer.

“Partner?” he offered, boggling at the strange turn to the conversation, and fully aware that he most certainly did _not_ want to be having this discussion. 

“Partner.” Fury tasted the word slowly. “That’ll do. Knew I could count on you. Hell, you’re the only married friend I’ve got.”

The words nailed Phil like a fist to the solar plexus, leaving him panting and speechless. Fury watched him again, the force of his gaze sharp as a scalpel, and Phil felt his skin peeling back. Trust Nicholas Damn Fury to get right to the heart of the matter and to read Phil like a preschool book.

“You’re not divorcing him,” Fury said. A statement: no hesitation, no question. Phil dropped his eyes before Fury spoke again. “I’m going to assume you have reasons beyond _feelings_.”

Oh, how right and how wrong he was, all at the same time. _If_ there ever came a day that Phil could bring Clint in, as a consultant, specialist, _or_ an agent, they would be allowed to continue their relationship; the frat regs for married personnel were significantly more relaxed than those for couples just dating. The marriage, no matter how much in-name-only it became, would prevent Phil from ever heading or working with a team that went out after Hawkeye or the Black Widow, either to capture or to kill. Phil knew he would never survive pointing a gun at the man who carried his ring and his heart. But, at the end of the day, Phil knew himself well enough to know that he would hold onto his little scrap of paper and the ring in his pocket for as long as he could, for no better reason than this: he loved Clint Barton Coulson with everything he had, and he couldn’t bear to be the one to end his own little dream.

Phil took a deep breath to answer, and then let it out when he looked up to find Fury still watching, something sad and compassionate on his face. Instead, Phil just nodded, and Fury’s lips tightened in something not quite a smile in return.

“Back on topic,” Fury said, pushing himself, coat swirling dramatically as he turned toward the door. “My _partner_ will be reaching New York in just over an hour. I’d like to be there to pull them off the ship _before_ anyone challenges their diplomatic immunity.” 

His lips softened into a quiet, private smile, and Phil’s mind jerked away from contemplating Fury’s _real_ reasons for wanting to get to to the dock early.

“Besides,” Fury said from the doorway, “I’m sure you’re anxious to see your baby brother, Jasper again, too. You two behave yourselves while we’re in public, or I’ll have you both manning bases on opposite poles. And grab Hill while you’re putting your team together!”

The door thumped closed behind him as he spun into the hall, and Phil heaved a sigh, half of relief and half of exhaustion. 

Whatever. It would be good to see Jas again. It was past time to get a beer with _both_ of his best friends. One normal night was just what he needed to get himself fully back on track again. One night with friends to put a few happy memories between himself and Amsterdam.

____

Clint folded his arms over his chest, laughing into the sun. He seemed to _finally_ be moving forward, but Nat was neither blind nor stupid. She saw him watching the milling crowds around them, not just there on the dock, but everywhere they’d gone, looking for one face out of the mass of New York. HIs ring had migrated from his finger to the necklace he wore around his neck, with a chain long enough to let it dangle in front of his heart. Knowing it was there and what it meant, she carefully concealed the worry that she lived with now-- would probably always live with now-- and patted Clint’s shoulder gently, gesturing at the three people being escorted toward them. 

Zeg swayed along in front, leaning less heavily on their cane than they had been the last time she had seen them. The shorter figure at their side, eyes darting in all directions and sun gleaming from his freshly-shaved scalp, could only be Agent Sitwell. Lumbering behind them came Basil, florid of face and beaming of mustache. 

Beside her, Clint suddenly went very, very still.

“Natalya.” His voice was soft and rough, and he cleared his throat before continuing in Russian. “Who are we working for?”

“Waarzegster, of course.” Nat answered him in English, but she couldn’t look at him, picturing all too well the pole-axed look that Clint would be wearing as he started to sink back into the place in his head he’d just crawled out of. There was a reason she hadn’t wanted to mention what the next job entailed. “Well, Basil over the last few weeks, really. Why did you think we were taking out bits and pieces of the Russian mafia, Clint?”

Clint inhaled sharply, a scathing retort clearly on the end of his tongue, and then all the wind blew out of him in a near-silent whine, animal-like with pain and desperation. Approaching from the west came a group of black suits led by a tall black man in a black leather coat and wearing a black eyepatch. On his right stalked Maria Hill, the navy of her field suit so dark as to nearly blend in with the suits that ranged behind her. And on the one-eyed man’s left walked Phil Coulson with the same proud strut she had seen on the mission in Amsterdam. 

Coulson saw Clint in that moment and froze, nothing more noticeable than the tiniest hitch in his step. His face paled around his sunglasses, and his mouth went slack, twitching as it attempted to form words. Clint whimpered again, reaching out as Coulson did the same, the gesture seeming equally unconscious from both of them. Clint stumbled forward a step. She flung her own arm out, then, catching Clint by the arm, and she couldn’t decide if she thought she would need to hold him up or if she needed to keep him from grabbing Coulson and running. Sitwell reached Nat’s other side, grinning at her as he edged in front of Zeg, closer to Coulson. 

The one-eyed man from SHIELD gave Nat a quick, cold glance and shot Clint a sharper look, and then he turned to Zeg and clearly forgot everyone else. Zeg smiled sweetly at him, face bare of makeup and looking young and bright and soft. The two of the leaned toward each other as if drawn by magnets.

Before anyone could touch, before anyone could speak, the echoing report of a handgun cut through the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Going out with friends; Even less porn (sorry); The world tilts again
> 
> With apologies for how long this has taken, but I have NEWS!!!! REAL NEWS!
> 
> 1) Chapter 18 has now been edited into shape. I will never post on pain meds post-surgery again. Promise.
> 
> 2) I HAVE A STORY UNDER CONTRACT WITH A REAL PUBLISHER! You can keep track of the publication info [here](http://www.cobblestone-press.com/comingsoon.htm). I’m currently under the “Coming Later This Year”, A Week in Miami by Chris MacHale (that’s me). 
> 
> You can also keep track of all that’s writing in the world of me [at THIS tumblr](http://penningthings.tumblr.com), that I keep JUST for writing stuff. So there are fewer bunnies, dogs, cats, and action figures in compromising positions, but I WILL update publication dates and what stories I’m working on outside of fandom. There is so much in my ongoing file right now, it’s crazy.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And after that...

Zeg hated the cane and the cast and the injured ankle that kept them from running across the dock when they recognized the tall man leading leading a phalanx of black-clad humanity. 

_Nicholas._

Their breath caught at the breadth of his shoulders and the fullness of his lips, and, though they would never publicly admit to it, their hands began to shake. Everything Zeg loved, everything they had ever wanted, dreamt of, _needed_ stalked toward them, and they didn’t know how they would bear the last few yards. They looked around for a distraction.

The stunned looks that Clint and Phil exchanged provided a welcome relief, and Zeg smiled at them. Nick had listened and brought along Phil, and Natasha had listened and gotten Clint there. Zeg quickly dismissed the lovelorn duo and turned back to their own affairs of the heart, smiling as Nick’s whole demeanor changed, softening the sternness of his jaw. They reached forward, fingers itching as they prepared to make contact with Nick’s for the first time in nearly a year.

Zeg’s entire body tensed as the first bullet pinged off the cement at their feet, and they stumbled on their cast, hissing curses under their breath. Basil’s solid hand looped under their elbow, pulling them upright before he tried to hand them off to Nick.

“No, Basil, go!” They shoved him hard toward the waiting mercenaries. “Natasha! Clint! Take him.” The crowd from SHIELD closed around them, a small ocean of black. They shoved hard, pushing Basil’s bulk into Barton’s chest; more bullets sizzled past as both men stumbled and then regained their footing. “Please! Keep him safe for us! You know where to go, and we will call you shortly.”

Natasha alone knew that Basil, under a different name, was still considered a person of interest for SHIELD. Zeg could protect them easily enough… until Basil actually had to stand in front of SHIELD's facial recognition cameras. It was a problem they intended to solve, permanently, by exchanging two excellent assets for Basil’s freedom. 

Another volley of gunfire rang out, the kevlar-clad agents taking the brunt of the hits as they sheltered those less appropriately dressed for a firefight. Coulson looped an arm around Zeg’s waist, drawing them lower and swinging them further to the center of the crowd around them.

“Welcome to the US, Waarzegster,” he said formally, and Zeg’s head snapped around to look for Barton. 

He was being pushed toward the edge of the wave of tacgear-clad agents by Natasha, the two of them with guns drawn as they shoved Basil low and lower still in what was surely the least-effective ever attempt to create a smaller target. Zeg turned back to Coulson, now close enough that Zeg could see the tension around his eyes through the tinting on his glasses.

“We appreciate your efforts toward _familiarity_ ,” they drawled, leaning heavily on his arm as they allowed themself to be hurried toward the nearby line of waiting SUVs, “but we were hoping for something significantly different than the life we just left.”

A hand, large and dry and so, so painfully familiar slid into Zeg’s grip, and they let themself be drawn close to Nick’s side, his arm slinging over their shoulders, wrapping the reinforced leather coat that he usually wore around Zeg.

“Come on, baby.” Nick’s gruff voice puffed hot breath across Zeg’s ear, and they fought the urge to turn the sheltering grip into an embrace. More gunshots echoed across the water, fewer after the return volleys from SHIELD and Barton and Romanov, ringing loud between the hull of nearby ships and the metal buildings that strung along the shore. “They’ll protect him if anyone can. But I have to watch over _you_ now.”

Coulson holstered his gun, offering his arm to Zeg as he swung open the rear door of one of the middle SUVs. He glanced back once, eyes turned toward the corner Barton, Romanov, and Basil had just vanished around.

“He’ll be okay, Phillip,” they said softly, touching his cheek. He smiled tightly at them, nodding once before Nick’s hand in the center of Zeg’s back became insistent, and they climbed into the seat after Jasper had slid across to cover the far door.

As the door swung shut behind Nick, Coulson spun away, lifting his gun and firing as a head popped over the edge of one of the nearby warehouses. Zeg’s manipulations did not appear to be yielding optimal results in regard to their mercenaries and Nick’s agent, but that would have to wait until later, when no one was actively shooting at anyone. Once this rescue was complete, Zeg hoped to have time to come back to it.

For now, all they could _really_ do was bask in the press of Nick’s thigh along their own and the realization that the physical proximity to this man was _finally_ forever.

____

 

Clint couldn’t move. 

Oh, his _body_ seemed to be moving just fine, running, firing, dragging Basil’s giant, red-clad ass toward safety and hoping no one got in a lucky shot. And what kind of asshole wore the world’s biggest, reddest polo shirt to meet a bunch of people in black when there was a chance someone would aim a gun at them? 

“Red stupid, stupid red,” Clint could hear himself chanting it under his breath as he fired every time a head popped over the edges of the warehouse roofs around them. 

The rest of Clint’s higher brain functions, those that weren’t required to incomprehensibly bitch about the color red, stood still on the dock, barely a yard from Phil, skin nearly climbing off of his bones in his desperation to get _closer_.

Clint tucked his pistol back into his waistband and jerked open the rear door of the fake cab Nat had left waiting for them, _just in case_. He shoved hard to get Basil’s bulk pressed into the floor of the backseat as Natasha slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the car into drive. As the tires squealed against the pavement a second before catching, Clint still felt as if he remained standing on the dock, hand reaching for Phil’s face.

Phil’s _face_ , with a bruise showing both above and below his aviators. A bruise that someone had _put on Phil’s face_ while Clint wasn’t there to protect him. How could Clint have let him go alone? How could he have let Phil risk himself without Clint’s eyes there to watch over him, keep him safe?

A silver Cadillac pulled out behind them, quickly joined by a dark red Lincoln, and Clint’s body automatically stretched out the window of the cab, gun coming up and firing with his usual accuracy, bullets pinging off the bulletproof glass of their windshields. His aim shifted to the tires, and he was barely aware of the cars flipping, rolling, no longer following them. Clint’s foot slid off the back of Basil’s neck, letting him struggle his way up into the seat as Clint slid back down to sit.

Even there, rocking with the force as Nat swung the wheel and they cornered hard, his mind stood still on the dock, watching Phil’s mouth shape Clint’s name, seeing his fingers twitch with the same longing that had lifted Clint’s hand toward Phil’s handsome, perfect, _injured_ face. 

_I know that living with you, baby, was sometimes hard_ , Clint hummed under his breath, wrapping his arms around his ribs, _but I’m willing to give it another tryyyyy. Nothing compares..._

____

Phil didn’t allow himself time to think until the SUVs were moving and he had made certain his charges were safe. He flung himself into the passengers seat, slamming the door as he, barked orders for the driver to go and watch for a tail. The car rolled into motion before Phil even managed to buckle his seatbelt. He looked back once, just in time to see a taxi scream out of an alleyway, suspension probably complaining at the speed around the first corner. He caught a glimpse of Clint popping out the window of the cab and raising a gun before the SUV he was riding in rounded a corner itself, and then Clint was gone. 

Gone and speeding in the other direction. Phil clenched his fist against his knee to keep from opening the door to throw himself out and try to chase it down on foot.

If he hadn’t had the imperative to keep Nick and Waarzegster away from criminal elements, if he hadn’t had a _goddamned job_ to do, Phil would have insisted the SUV turn back. He wanted to track down the people who had been shooting at them-- at _Clint_ \-- and make them pay, each and every one. Clint had been there, close enough to count the distance in inches. His hand had come up, and Phil had been on the verge of flinging himself at the man, professionalism be damned! 

For a week, Phil had managed to act as though Clint wasn’t the first thing he thought of in the morning, the last thing he imagined before he slept, the _only_ thing he thought about for all the space in between. Phil had made it one entire week without slipping on his ring and losing himself in wishing.

He didn’t think he could ever pretend again, not after seeing him right there in New York. Not now that he had proof in his _real_ life that Clint hadn’t just been a fevered fantasy for Europe.

Clint was thinner than he’d been before, in Amsterdam. There were dark rings under his eyes, ground-in bruises, clear evidence he hadn’t been sleeping well. Phil felt sick, thinking of the purplish smudges against Clint’s flawless, golden skin, of the hollowness of his cheeks. Clint was supposed to be fine. He was _supposed_ to be going on about his life, not feeling the loss of Phil so deeply. Not feeling the loss as deeply as Phil did. Clint was young and beautiful and clever and so, so talented. He could have anyone. He was too good to be broken-hearted over the loss of someone like Phil.

But Phil couldn’t fool himself into thinking that Clint wasn’t feeling the same sense of loss that Phil was desperately trying to live with. Knowing that bit deeply into the pit of Phil’s belly, and he closed his eyes, sighing hard, and trying to keep himself from doing something even more unprofessional than sweeping Clint into a kiss right there in front of God, Nick Fury, and everyone would have been.

 _Can’t have the juniors knowing Agent Coulson is human enough to cry,_ he told himself wryly.

Phil rebuilt Clint-on-the-docks behind his eyelids, picturing the swell of those amazing biceps that strained at the sleeves of Clint’s long-sleeved henley, the way the sun had gleamed off his hair, shorter now than it had been in The Netherlands. He imagined again the way Clint’s mouth had formed Phil’s name, teeth dimpling the soft pout of his bottom lip. 

In his ear, the rest of Operation Meet and Greet checked in, reassuring him that no one had been seriously injured, that a number of enemy combatants had been killed by a single, small-caliber gunshot to the head-- _That accuracy at that distance with that weapon was_ hot!-- and that the remaining attackers were in SHIELD custody. Phil heaved out another sigh and leaned his forehead against the window, another wave of loneliness and bone-deep loss spilling into his guts, reminding him that he’d only pushed it away before. 

He knew there would never be a way to eradicate the ache. Not without figuring out how to keep Clint away from SHIELD while still keeping him home with Phil.

____

“Phil?” Jasper held his breath as he opened the door to Phil’s office. A quick glance around showed no _visible_ signs that Phil had been there in the last two hours. The unlocked door screamed plainly that Phil was _not_ in a good headspace. “Alright, man. You can’t hide under there for the rest of your goddamned life.”

Not waiting for an answer, Jas walked around the desk, dragged out the chair and leaned down to smile at Phil stuffed tightly into the knee-well.

“Hey, Phil. Wanna talk about it?” He caught the arm that Phil flung out, heaving him out and up, steadying him until he looked like his knees could hold him again.

“How’d you know I was down there?” Phil asked mildly, but he wouldn’t meet Jasper’s eyes. Not even when Jas gave in to the urge to fix Phil’s loose, crooked tie, pulling it tight and smoothing it down the front of Phil’s chest. 

Usually Phil was the one fixing ties and collars and making certain Jas and Maria were put together, physically-speaking, while Maria had her quiet, angry moments over relationships that didn’t operate on logic or when Jas came back from a bad mission or found himself dumped. Jas handed Phil his jacket from the back of his office chair, watching as he pulled it on, movements stiff and slow.

“Your door was open.” Jasper reached under the lapels of Phil’s jacket to smooth his shirt front and got his hands slapped for his trouble. “Fine. Look like you’ve been on a bender. _I_ don’t care, but you’ll worry Mars.”

“I can dress myself, Jas.” Phil huffed, and Jasper dropped into the desk chair, watching Phil straighten his cuffs and fidget with the button of his jacket. “And how does an unlocked door equate to looking under my desk for me?”

“If the office is unlocked, you’re in it.” Jasper shrugged, swinging the chair side to side. “The only other place to hide in here is your damn closet, and I know better than to open closet doors if you could be on the other side. For a man who’s proud of his sexuality, you sure do spend a lot of time on in-the-closet gay. If I opened that closet door, Barton would have been blowing you. Or worse.”

Phil’s eyes narrowed, and his ears turned red at the edges; Jasper silently tallied a point to himself for the direct hit.

“In case you missed the memo,” Phil said coldly, ice behind his tone, “ _that_ is not going to happen again.”

Jasper looked down and buffed his nails lightly on his pants. He already missed the easy-access manicures from the ship. And the lazy afternoons on the deck. And turndown service. And the breakfast buffet: he’d really learned to love that breakfast buffet.

“I saw the way he looked at you at the dock, Phil. He misses your O face.” Jasper looked up to find Phil staring at him with a strange combination of horror and hope. “You want more depraved sex acts to happen behind locked doors, all you gotta do is get off your ass and go find him.”

“S’not that easy, Jas.” Phil put one hand over his face and sighed, the other arm wrapping across his chest as he tucked into himself. “Everything that stood in the way before still counts.”

“You sure about that?” Jasper pushed himself lazily to his feet. “You don’t have to tell _me_ , but you need to make up your mind. If you _did_ see him again, what would you say? What do you _want_ , Phil? You need to figure your shit out.”

“I--” Phil began, and Jasper cut him off with a tight hug, thumping Phil hard on the back.

“Don’t tell me man, just tell yourself.” Jas knew that whatever Phil answered in that moment would be too flip, too rote. Phil didn’t seem to know straight up from sideways, and he needed some time to figure out his own thoughts before he tried to explain them to Jasper. 

Phil’s shoulders relaxed, and he looped his arms around Jasper, returning the hug.

“Let’s go find Mars and hit the bar,” Jasper told him, still holding tight. “I’ve missed you assholes. And, if anyone ever accuses us of hugging, we’re both agreed that this is a very _manly_ hug, right?”

“The manliest,” Phil agreed, all false solemnity and put-on sincerity. “Everything you do is very macho, Jas.”

Phil shoved Jasper away, chuckling weakly for just a moment before the laughter faded off of his lips, but not from his eyes. Three hours before, when they’d returned from the docks, Phil had crept away from the debrief with hopeless sadness in his eyes. He still looked sad, but the lost-puppy look of abandonment had begun to fade. Jas decided to call his comfort technique a win.

“Damn straight.” Jasper grinned and pulled out his last guaranteed-to-make-Phil-laugh card. “Maybe ‘not straight,’ in your case. But wait’ll I tell you about the spa days on the ship! I’m sure I’ll sound _very_ manly.”

That time, Phil’s laughter, dry and strained as it was, lasted all the way down the hall to Maria’s office.

____

Clint’s leg bounced under the table, glad that the low height of the bench kept his knee from bumping against the tabletop. He didn’t want to vibrate all the bubbles out of his beer, in spite of how hard he was working to shake the fizzy feeling out of his nerves, to get the itch out from under his still-too-tight skin. He’d barely been able to keep his the tremors out of his hands during the trip to the safehouse where he and Nat had stashed Basil. 

The nervous tic in his thigh did nothing to dissipate the nerves. All through the late afternoon and evening, as he’d pulled on a crinkly polyester jacket and greasy trucker hat to drive a fake cab to pick up Basil’s sister to keep him company while he waited for word from Zeg, Clint had trembled and twitched. He’d washed his body in the shower and dressed for an evening out with Nat, shaking so hard that he could barely stay on his feet. Even still, he felt so quivery that he wasn’t yet certain he’d be capable of sitting up when Nat inevitably wanted to discuss--

“Do we need to talk about this?” Nat’s sharp voice interrupted Clint’s train of thought, and he sighed, wondering if he could borrow Zeg’s full title: they weren’t the only Fortune Teller around here, obviously.

“Wha’s there to talk ‘bout?” Clint grunted, wrapping one hand around his beer, fingers toying in the condensation on the glass.

“That,” Natasha said, nodding toward his glass, clearly ignoring the state Clint was in; he knew better than to think she wouldn’t bring it up later. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Clint heaved a sigh and, just to be an ass, he lifted his glass and took a long pull, letting the foam settle on and stick to his upper lip. She huffed in annoyance as he licked off the temporary mustache and winked at her. He’d never tell her that he, too, was wondering if it would be a problem; half of him just wanted to crawl into a bottle and disappear for the night. But he’d had entirely too much to drink over the last few weeks, and the thought of being sloppy drunk in public made his skin crawl. Especially now. Especially after seeing Phil and not knowing if he’d pop up again. 

Phil could turn up at the bar, slide into the booth beside Clint, and Clint needed to have his wits about him when--

He cut that thought off with another vicious pull from his glass and looked around the bar, uncertain if he was looking for threats or hoping for another appearance of-- No. No, he wouldn’t let himself start thinking that way, or he’d never _stop_ thinking about it, hoping for it, one more glimpse. If he wished for _that_ , he’d lose himself in daydreams, and he’d never be able to do his damn job again.

An enormous gathering of rabid sports fans spread over all the tables in the center of the bar, the whole thundering horde of them wearing blue jerseys and hats emblazoned with an over-confident bird in desperate need of a shampoo. At least, that’s what the Jayhawk had always looked like to his Hawkeye soul. Clint watched them, fascinated, as their fists shot into the air almost in unison and high fives slapped around overhead. He couldn’t see a television screen from where he sat, but Kansas had obviously done something their fans approved of. 

Even if Clint wanted to be drunk enough to forget (and _God_ , did he wish that such a thing was possible), this was not a good location to risk anything slowing him down. Slowing him down _further_ , anyway. Given his current level of shock… Well, it was a damn good thing Nat was well-armed. She’d give him time to get his gun out and aimed. Just like she had earlier, at the dock when he’d seen--

The crowd shouted again, jerking Clint out of his head. A few of them raised their hands in less congratulatory gestures, aiming their irritation at the televisions in the corners. At least Clint wouldn’t have to wait for the hangover to get a headache. _Why_ did Natasha have to pick a rivalry sports night to go to a _sports bar_ for whatever meeting their new boss had set up.

And, speaking of their new boss, why the _fuck_ had Nat not told him they were working for Zeg? 

Clint shook his head and downed the rest of his beer. He rolled the empty glass between his hands, staring sightlessly at the glitter of colors from the stained-glass light fixture over the table. He shook himself again and pretended to ponder for a moment, before he looked up and caught the eye of their server. He held up his empty, and she nodded before turning toward the bar to bring him another. Nat sighed dramatically and he gave her a bright, clearly faked smile.

“You’re a dick,” Nat observed when he looked from the server to her. She grabbed a fried mushroom from one of the baskets strewn across the tabletop and nibbled a hole in the batter to let the steam escape. “But seriously, Clint, you really can’t--”

“I know, Nat. I know, and I’m sticking to the limit we set.” He shrugged and picked up a stick of fried cheese, biting the end off and hissing curses as the molten mozzarella burned his tongue. The pain faded after a moment of panting. “If I have them both now, I can enjoy the buzz and still be sober in time for… this meeting thing. Who _are_ we meeting?” 

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” She reached across the table and squeezed his wrist on the hand holding his cheese stick, clearly ignoring his question. He shook her off and took another bite, blatantly ignoring her concerns about his recent decision to practice alcoholism as a life choice.

“If you’d just _told_ me who we were meeting at the dock…” _Maybe I’d have been ready to see him. Maybe I wouldn’t have frozen and I could have at least signed hello. Maybe I’d have been ready when Phil first got there, and I could have touched him. Kissed him. Begged him to take me back and keep me._ Clint shook his head. Even if he’d been prepared, there were still gunshots “If I’d just known who hired us…”

“What does it matter who we’re working for?” Nat stared at him, eyes wiped blank of all emotion in the way that only happened when she wasn’t sure how her words would be interpreted. Whatever she was trying to say, it was _important_ , and Clint opened his mouth, uncertain if he was gearing up to yell at her, cry, or demand that she just fucking say it plainly, already.

Another shout from Fanatics R Us prevented him from doing either, and he let his mouth snap shut as the catcalling and jeers went on for several minutes. He sighed and took another bite of cheese, glad that it was cooling down. Truth was, he didn’t have a good answer for her. Their rule had always been that a job was a job, so long as it didn’t go against their (admittedly shaky) morals. But this was _different_.

What Clint knew of Zeg was that their money was good, their word was better, and they were involved with Phil’s boss. Also, they didn’t hire assassins, as a general rule, believing that if someone _ought_ to die, they deserved to die at the hand of the best. And Zeg, ever one to toot their own horn, considered themself the best. Clint’s professional hackles raised slightly at that thought, but he shoved the rest of his cheese stick in his mouth and told himself to get a grip. At least working for Zeg, he _knew_ his arrows wouldn’t end up in stuck in good people, and he knew he wouldn’t be stealing anything that legally belonged to the people he would be liberating it from. 

More spying, fewer bullets. Clint could get behind a plan like that.

But Zeg was involved with _Phil’s boss_. The chances that Clint would see Phil again were… higher than zero, and Clint didn’t know how he felt about that one. On the hand, the possibility made something hot billow up in his chest, something that felt weirdly like hope. On the other… On the other, there was no way in hell Clint could survive very many unplanned encounters with _his husband_ without being allowed to touch. 

Then again, if Zeg was with the Director of SHIELD, and Clint worked for Zeg, and Phil worked for SHIELD… didn’t that make them almost compatible in all the ways they’d been _incompatible_ before? What if Clint’s new job meant that he _could_ be good enough for Phil? What if he could borrow some of Zeg’s class, some of Zeg’s respectability? Would that be enough for Phil to move forward?

Then again, what if seeing Clint at the docks reminded Phil of their unfinished business and he got on with filing for divorce himself? Being served with papers would ruin the happy little fantasies that got Clint through the lonely nights. He wasn’t sure he was ready to give up his unspoken dreams of finding Phil again, of moving in and pretending like their pretend marriage was something more. 

And there was a truth: for Clint, this was no pretend marriage. For Clint, this was forever. ‘Til death or Phil filing for divorce them did part.

He smiled weakly up at the waitress as she dropped off his beer, and then turned the same weak smile on Nat.

“Would’ve been nice to know we’d gone respectable. Maybe I could have told Phil. Maybe called him instead of hiding in the closet with a bottle.” Clint thumped his head down on the table, narrowly missing the wing basket. He tossed one arm over the back of his head, hiding from the world. Except Natasha. Hiding from her would never work, and her fingers carded through his hair as he mumbled into the slightly sticky varnished wood. “Or I might’ve run away so I wouldn’t have to deal with my feelings and how fucking much I love that man.”

Another wave of shouts roared around the room, this time seeming to come from the edges of the room, where people wearing the wrong colors sat and glared at the blue-clad fans, mumbling to each other over drinks and baskets of fries.  
____

Phil sank into the curve of the usual booth and tried not to lean too much into Jasper’s side. Maria didn’t hesitate to press herself against Jasper’s far side, however, so Phil ended up with Jas plastered along his ribs and thigh, anyway. Wasn’t as if it was the first time they’d huddled together for comfort, so Phil soaked up what they offered. He did _not_ , however, let himself drop his head on Jas’s shoulder like Maria had. Just because they piled together into bed like puppies when drunk or stressed or depressed, there was no call for playing the role of the other slice of bread in a public production of Senior Agent Sandwich.

Relaxing in the bar proved more difficult than normal. Some kind of reunion had taken over the other half of the bar, their section divided from the smaller, more serious drinking room by partial walls and a few thoughtful decorator decisions. Phil watched how the crowd of them moved around, hopping from table to table, some of them standing in the center of the room, arms looped over shoulders as they chanted in unison. Phil grinned wryly, remembering the first time SHIELD had thrown an event in that half of the bar. Apparently, drunk junior agents couldn’t tell the difference between a specialist with a clearance level and some strange guy on his first date with some girl. 

The following New Years, SHIELD had reserved the entire bar and had probies taking turns on the door, turning away anyone without a badge and an ID that showed them to be of legal drinking age. 

Jasper winced at a particularly loud shout from the next room. 

“It was quiet on the ship,” he said glumly. “Peaceful. And people know to stay back from Zeg, so there weren’t many things that got close enough to interrupt the peace and calm.”

“So how was your little pleasure cruise with the unsanctioned spymaster assassin?” Phil knew he’d need to be on the offense to keep from having to defend himself from questions about the ring that burned a hole in his pocket. He shifted slightly away from Jas when their first round of beers and shots slid across the table accompanied by a salacious smirk from his favorite server. Her red hair was twisted up in a bun with a pencil shoved through it, and he told her she looked studious. She laughingly told him she was too old to be a student, and then she sashayed away with a quick wink over her shoulder.

“Spill it, Jas.” Maria also slid away from Jasper, nearly to the outside edge of the curved bench so she could stretch her legs out, knees over Jasper’s and feet in Phil’s lap. “Luxury cruise. With Zeg, so the scenery was good, even if you had nothing but ocean to stare over the railing at.”

“You’re not lying.” Jas grinned, his ears and scalp pinking slightly. Maria slapped her hand down on Jas’s shoulder, open-palmed and harder than the hit would appear to an outside observer.

“We’ve already established that everyone has a crush on Zeg--”

Phil interrupted Maria with a muttered, “except me.”

“That’s because you’re a sad sack, one-man man kind of person.” Maria kicked at his knee with the side of her ankle, and Phil felt himself blush; if he wanted to keep his partners from asking about his love life and how he was feeling after the dock, he was clearly going about it the wrong way. Maria shot him an understanding look and turned back to Jas, wiggling in her seat. “But _cruise_ , Jas. Spill it. Food. Drinks. Onboard entertainment. International espionage secrets. What was the best part? I want details!”

“You just want to know if you should quit your job and see if Zeg has an opening for you,” Phil said dryly, trying to project his usual levels of snark. Mostly, he wondered how long he’d have to fake it before he could go home, drag himself between his sheets, and let the forty-seven seconds of his afternoon where he’d been inches away from Clint and the world had gone right-side-up play over and over in his head. He shook off the urge to drift into imagination and turned back to the conversation in progress.

“Seriously!” Jas said in the face of Mars’s disbelieving laughter. He leaned back and raised both hands. “About the end of the first week out there, Zeg had too much champagne with supper and _went into detail_ about the early part of their relationship with Fury.”

“Oh my god,” Maria leaned her elbow on the table and propped her chin on one fist, her expression both fascinated and horrified. “That sounds… educational.”

“They sat in my lap on a deck chair and cried on my shoulder, and all I could do was pat them on the shoulder and hope Fury wasn’t gonna send one of you two to kill me for touching his scary, giant assassin.” Jasper took a swallow of his beer and squinted. “Although, if he sent you, Coulson, I think I’d be okay. I can probably take you. Just throw donuts at you until you get distracted and then shoot you in the face.”

Phil punched him in the shoulder, because it was expected, and then settled back, ignoring Jasper’s increasingly extravagant tales from the ship. He tried to paste a vague but interested expression on his face, and returned to the memory of Clint’s lips dropping open in surprise before shaping Phil’s name. In his mind he lovingly reconstructed the sunlight glinting off of Clint’s hair, and lingered over the way Clint’s washed-to-softness henley had hugged his enormous shoulders. 

He glanced gratefully at the raucous party across the bar; with their enthusiasm, no one would hear his dreamy, wistful sigh.

____

Clint carefully picked apart a hot wing, trying not to rub the small bump of the wedding ring on a chain through the faded knit of his t-shirt. It was a favorite shirt, and he didn’t particularly want it covered in buffalo fingerprints.

“So,” Nat leaned forward, dropping chicken bones into the half-empty basket, “if you’d known, would you have called him?”

He shrugged one shoulder in reply and shoved another bite of chicken in his mouth. If he’d known that he’d accidentally gone legit, _would_ he have called Phil? Not if he’d thought Phil was out living his life, kicking ass and taking names. If he’d known that he’d next see Phil looking exhausted and hungry and _wearing a black eye_... Maybe he would have. Maybe he could persuade the tired version of Phil that he needed Clint as much as the weary version of Clint needed Phil.

“You could have called him anyway, you know that right.” Her eyes were soft when Clint looked up, and he went back to watching his fingers pull at his food, unable to hide from the understanding in that look. “I… I trust that you wouldn’t leave me for him. I trust that he wouldn’t ask that of you. Because he _didn’t_ , Clint. He broke himself rather than ask that. He looked awful on that dock. I think he’d have tried to overcome _anything_ to be with you, if he’d known.”

Clint shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, eyes focusing very hard on where he dug at the last splinters of meat on the bones, pretending to be busy, pretending to be utterly absorbed in his chicken-eating. Phil _had_ looked awful before, the cool Secret Agent mask dropping away as he’d recognized Clint, and the way the corners of his mouth tightened into a grimace that looked like pain.

“Well, now you can call him.” Nat poked the basket closer to Clint, and he took the hint and added his handful to the bone heap at one end of the greasy paper. “You _should_ call him. I can’t have you like this anymore. _You_ can’t survive like this anymore.”

Clint gave another shrug, still not knowing how to squeeze words past the lump in his throat, and decided that this conversation was, at the very least, giving him a great shoulder workout.

“I’m meeting with Zeg tonight, and we’ll know more about our job. They need me to make a delivery for them.” She leaned back against the backrest and stretched one arm across the back of the booth. “So when _are_ you going to make that call?”

Never. Never might be good.

Clint couldn’t admit that to Nat, though, because it would mean admitting that he was mostly just chicken. Afraid that, if he did reach out, Phil would be angry at Clint for not filing for divorce or whatever he was supposed to have done. Worried that somehow Phil would know that Clint hadn’t been able to shower for a week, that he’d been drinking himself into a stupor to get to sleep at night. Scared that Phil would guess that he hadn’t been able to function since that night it had hit him so damned hard that Phil was gone from his life forever, and that sharing a name and a flimsy piece of paper would never be enough to fill the hollowed-out place in Clint’s chest.

Most of all, he was afraid that when Phil figured all of that out-- figured out how much of a fuck-up Clint really was-- he’d make his own move to cut all ties with Clint. That he would file the paperwork to take back his name and that he would take his heart back, too. Clint was afraid Phil would stop loving him, if he knew him in his everyday life, and that would leave him alone with nothing but tainted memories of warmth and happiness as they faded into a soon-forgotten history.

But Phil had looked so _sad_ earlier that day. He’d reached for Clint before Clint reached out. His mouth had framed Clint’s name with something warm and tender and Clint tried to believe that the warmth that bubbled up in his chest was something more than wishful thinking. 

He wasn’t convinced, but the hopeful sensation was at least a place to start.

He shoved half of it in his mouth at once, chewing slowly to give himself time to get his thoughts in order. Nat kept looking at him expectantly, and he knew he’d have to come up with _some_ kind of answer for her.

“Well, Nat,” he said slowly, shoving the rest of his cheese into his mouth before speaking around the mouthful. “What if SHIELD’s after us, now that we’re back home?” It remained the major sticking point in any of Clint’s dreams of a reunion with Phil. Would Phil wait until they’d both gotten off to snap on the cuffs, or would he be all business and Agent Coulson? “Since they didn’t get back their missing plans, and they still have no _proof_ that we didn’t steal them.”

Nat suddenly grinned, wolfish and sharp. “About that, Clint…”

The electric current at her tone and words jolted down Clint’s spine, and he leaned forward and inhaled to ask what she meant. He’d forgotten about the cheese he’d been in the middle of eating, and a piece lodged in his throat for a minute. Nat laughed at him-- _laughed at him_ \-- and slipped around the table to slide into the booth beside him. She pounded him on the back, sliding her glass of water into his hand as he finally managed to swallow. He gulped down air first, grimacing at the soreness in his throat.

A groan rose up from the football fans, cutting off the beginning of Nat’s explanation, and Clint shot them a glare for daring to interrupt Nat’s big news. When the _Hell_ did _that many_ people from Kansas move to New York, anyway, and how the hell had they all found one other? Maybe there was a football connections thing like some mockery of a dating app. Jayhawkser or something.

Nat waited until their shouts faded back into a loud-but-level background hum and leaned close to Clint’s ear, speaking quietly but carefully.

“Zeg wants to give me something to deliver tonight. They haven’t said, but I _think_ it has something to do with the plans. Some way to _prove_ we weren’t the thieves.”

“How the hell…” Clint trailed off, staring into the middle distance. “But they’ve been on a damn boat for the past umpteen days. How the _hell_ did they manage to find… _anything_?”

“It’s Waarzegster, Clint,” Nat said, leaning away from Clint as he turned to look at her. She grinned impishly. “No one knows how they do most of the things they do. That’s why they cost so much.” Her grin widened further. “Do you want to know who I’m supposed to get the plans or whatever to?”

Clint nodded, and Nat’s smile shifted from amused to predatory. Clint swallowed around a sudden wave of apprehension. 

“Who _is_ it, Nat?” Clint grabbed for a pickle chip, trying to play it cool, unconcerned. He would _not_ collapse to the sticky floor under the table, no matter what Nat said.

Ten seconds and one _helluva_ shock later, Clint found himself choking on hot, brined cucumber and breading, and rather wishing he’d left his mouth empty. When he could finally breathe again, Clint gulped down the rest of his second beer, giving himself a moment to compose his thoughts. 

“But why can’t Zeg do it themself?” He picked up another pickle chip, taking a careful bite, trying to keep this one from either trying to kill him and from being coughed across the booth.

Nat gave him a strange look, part incredulous and part understanding, and her lips twisted into a smile, one eyebrow climbing her forehead. “How would that clear our names with your husband and his people?”

____

Zeg rustled against the sheets like a featherless bird, limbs flung out wide and limp. They tossed their head weakly against the pillow, eyes closed and lips curving in a soft, far-too-satisfied smile. 

“Still alive there, Z?” Nick asked lightly, walking across the room to sit carefully beside their hip, one hand splaying low across their too-thin belly, fingers pressing dimples into their cream-pale skin. His own pants hung open below his bare torso, but this time had been all for Zeg. He admitted to himself-- not that he didn’t for one second think that Zeg had guessed-- that it was always all for Zeg, everything he ever did. _Always_ for Zeg.

“If we’re not,” Zeg answered lazily, one eye beautiful blue eye cracking open to stare up at him, “know that we died happy and _thoroughly_ content.”

Nick trailed a fingertip across their navel, smiling at the ticklish shiver it elicited. He spread his palm over their hipbone, trying to soak the feeling of their skin into his palm. Even though he _knew_ this was here to stay, that _Zeg_ was here to stay, thirty years of his heart cracking as he’d kissed them goodbye much sooner than he ever wanted had taught him to drink them in as deeply as he could, as quickly as possible.

“Glad you’re here, baby.” He leaned and kissed the line of their collarbone, fitting his lips carefully between two purpling lovebites. “Can’t believe we finally made it.”

Zeg opened both eyes then, reaching up for him. Their cast slid around the back of his neck, locking into place as the always-surprising strength in those skinny arms pulled. As soon as was close enough, Zeg curled forward to reach his lips with their own, spreading their other hand across his bare shoulder.

“It has certainly taken we two long enough to find our way to this place.” Zeg pulled harder, and Nick let himself be gathered into their chest, shifting as he lowered himself to keep from putting pressure on the bandage over their hip. 

“Almost didn’t get to,” he whispered, closing his eyes for the length of one breath as he wrapped his hand around their cast, pressing it lightly to the bed. “I coulda lost you, baby. You got _shot_ this time.”

“Mmm, because you have never had knives or bullets pierce your skin. Because you didn’t _lose your eye_ eight years after we met.” Zeg shivered and Nick rolled over them, drawing them into his chest as he settled his side onto the mattress. 

He shushed them, stroking one hand over their tangled hair and pulling their face into his neck. Almost as an afterthought, he carefully slid his leg between theirs, giving them a place to rest their broken ankle, temporarily released from the removable walking cast.

“‘S okay now, baby.” Nick kissed their temple, their hair, their forehead. They wriggled closer and returned his frantic kisses with presses of their own lips to his neck and shoulder and chest. “It’s okay. We made it.”

He closed his eyes again and just breathed in the smell of their perfumed hair and skin. Their fingers tightened against his arm, painfully intense, trembling with their heartbeat. They both clung for a long moment, and Nick didn’t have to ask to know what Zeg was thinking. Same thing he was.

Over the nearly thirty years since they’d found each other, kept each other, lost each other, and then found one another again and again in further-flung locations every time they came together, there had been many times they’d nearly lost each other for good. The first time Nick had nearly died because of his job. The time Zeg considered taking work for an _actual_ enemy organization. The time Nick had done something phenomenally stupid and nearly walked away because he was more concerned with what someone else thought of his lover than with what _he_ thought of his lover. 

They’d both had to get to places where they were more administrative than people of action, and Nick had finally gotten to a place where he didn’t care if someone thought he was gay when he had this beauty on his arm. He’d gotten _there_ a long time before, to be sure, but it had taken longer still to prove to Zeg he meant it.

Nick heaved a sigh wondering where Coulson would have to get before he quit sacrificing himself and let someone in his life. Twenty-eight years was too long to wait for this, Nick reflected as he nuzzled into Zeg's hair. He hoped his mercurial lover had another sure-fire plan that wouldn't explode in their faces as spectacularly as the last one had.

“We two must get up.” Zeg sighed in his arms and kissed his neck once more. They slowly pushed themself away, and Nick felt their flinch as they tried to use their injured arm to push themself up. He pushed himself up quickly to offer assistance, looping an arm around their narrow shoulders and spending just one spare moment running his fingertips over the sharp jut of their shoulderblades. “We two need to dress and go. We have a surprise for you.”

“I don’t generally like surprises,” Nick told them, leaning in to kiss them on the eyelid. “But I’ll trust you this time.”

“You trust us all the time,” Zeg answered comfortably, reaching over to paw through a stack of clothing that had been dropped on the bed in the rush to get them naked. They stood as they found their trousers before scowling at the wrinkles and dropping them carelessly on the floor; Nick’s always tidy bedroom was going to look like a dressing room floor soon, and he could barely wait. They swayed gracefully with only a trace of a limp across the floor to where their suitcase rested on a chair. “Now hurry or we will arrive too late, and your present will be gone.”

____

“Phil. Phil. Phil.” Maria continued repeating his name, and Jas’s arm shook against her leg with the force of his laughter. The movement shook the five beers that sloshed in her stomach, and she shot a dirty look at Jasper’s amused dimple-- he hadn’t had to deal with this bullshit for three weeks-- and kicked Phil’s thigh, increasing the force with every repetition of his name. “Phil. Phil! _PHIL!_ ”

“Yeah?” Phil looked up with glassy eyes. He’d had all of one shot and half a glass of beer, so he couldn’t use intoxication as an excuse. At least not _alcohol_ intoxication. The man was clearly still drunk on _lurve_ or something like that. “What?”

Jas snorted and threw back his third beer. “Where’d you go, man?”

“Back to the dock this afternoon,” She was trying for gentle, but gentle didn’t come naturally to her. Phil eyed her warily, and she rolled her eyes at him. If he thought she couldn’t read him after all these years, well, he didn’t deserve his security clearance _or_ his reputation around SHIELD. “Phil, you have _got_ to get yourself together. I thought you were doing better. Getting over him or past him or something.”

“Come on, Phil. You can’t stay married to a man you’re actively _trying_ to never see again.” Jas pushed Maria’s legs off of his lap and scooted around to bump his shoulder against Phil’s. She scowled over at Jas; he’d _sworn_ he wouldn’t tell Phil that she’d passed on their conversation. If Phil got pissed at her again, Jas was going to have some probie paperwork in his future. “You either need to let him go or call him and figure something out.”

“He’s not going to come in, not without Natasha.” Phil shrugged and picked up his beer, and Maria cringed at the thought of how warm it must be. Phil simply downed it in three deep swallows, miles past tasting anything, from the look on his face. “And I don’t see any possible way I can be effective at my job and involved with someone on the other side.”

“Maybe you should get Fury to give you some pointers,” Jasper offered with his shit-eating grin bringing out his dimple. Maria had missed that dimple, and she smiled when it swung her direction. “Not that I’d compare a hick like Barton to Zeg. I think they’d both kill me.”

“That’s just it. What if Clint gets a job to take out you? Or Mars. Or _me_.” Phil spun the empty glass between his palms, watching the glimmer of the overhead lights on the shining surface. The gesture was so familiar that it soothed the knot building in Maria’s gut. Phil might be cracked, but he wasn’t broken yet; her best friend was still in there somewhere. “And, seriously, nearly three full decades _apart_ before they got it together enough to live on the same _continent_ , Jas. Is _that_ the kind of thing you think I should do?”

“Then divorce him.” Jas snapped, and Maria had to bite down a cheer. It was about time _somebody_ made Phil start thinking with his upstairs brain when it came to Barton, and Jas’s customary bluntness made it forgiveable. Not that she expected Phil to _actually_ divorce Barton. Not that she really _wanted_ him to. She just found mopey Phil exhausting. And she did hate seeing him so broken. “Let him go, let yourself go, find someone to rebound bang, and get on with your damn life.”

“It’s not that simple, and you know it.” Phil looked up, eyes dark and wild, and Maria felt something hot tingling in her eyes. It’d been a month already, and Phil clearly hurt just as much now as he had the day he kissed Barton goodbye, and the fact that he was hurting made Maria’s heart ache for him. Someday she might even learn how to tell him that. “If I’m married to him, I can’t be sent out to take him in. If I’m married to him… If he ever comes in…” He trailed off and shrugged.

If they remained married and Barton came in, Phil would be allowed to continue the relationship. If Barton came in after a divorce, he’d be technically off-limits to Phil until they had matching security clearance. Phil didn’t break rules like that. Maria cringed, thinking what Phil would be like during a several years-long wait with Barton right under his nose. The sexual tension would probably burn down HQ, if they were assigned to the same base.

The party in the far room began to pack up, and Maria heaved a relieved sigh. With the bar emptying out, maybe Phil would unclench enough to get a solid drunk going. Maybe he could cry a little instead of sitting there wet-eyed and stoic, release enough pressure to start healing a little. Maybe he’d get shit-faced and stumbling, and then she and Jasper could take him home and pour him into bed. 

Bed. Bed would be nice with Jasper’s warm bulk to curl against. She’d really _missed_ Jas. Although maybe the glow of affection was just her own fourth beer talking. Whatever. She’d try to answer that puzzle in the morning, when, hopefully, Phil would start to feel better and she could focus on something other than how horribly worried about him she was.

“Phillip,” she began, and then blinked, cringing at the use of his undercover name, the name Barton had called him when they’d first met. “Coulson. Come on. You gotta get this mess sorted. It’s been a month, and one glimpse of him has you all the way back at Amsterdam levels of distraction. You can’t go on like this. It’s unhealthy, and it’s _dangerous_ in the field.”

Phil shook his head at her without speaking. He pushed himself to his feet and fished a handful of change out of his pocket.

“You two come up with an alternate plan, if you’re both so _knowledgeable_ about relationships between agents and non-agents.” He shook his head, and Maria looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

Therein lay the rub: she had _no idea_ how Phil could resolve the situation. He’d obviously made up his mind that divorce was out, and she could concede that he had a few good points. Just the same, Hawkeye’s name showed up on their persons of interest sheets often enough to make him dangerous to Phil’s career. Worst of all, Phil was so damned _noble_ that he’d give up any happiness he found in life if he thought it benefited someone he cared about, and he _obviously_ cared about Barton. The mess was enough to give her a headache before the hangover kicked in.

“I’m gonna get some music going, now that it’s quiet enough to hear myself think,” Phil said as he picked up his empty glass. “And gonna grab another drink on my way back.” He set the glass on the tray of a server going by, moving so quickly with his usual ninja-like stealth that Maria was sure the guy hadn’t even noticed the addition. 

“Glad you’re home to deal with him, Jas,” Maria said, looping her arm through Jasper’s and settling against his shoulder as he shuffled closer in the booth. “My next step was going to be to smother him in his sleep. He’s going to pull up Patsy Cline. I just _know_ it’s going to be Patsy. Swear to _God_ , Jasper, he’s had her on repeat in his headphones since he got home. He doesn’t think I know, but he keeps leaving the damn thing playing on his desk when he gets up for anything, and I have _very good hearing_. He hasn’t started singing along yet, but I figure it’s only a matter of time.”

Jasper blinked incredulously at her and then barked a sharp laugh.

“Don’t discount the smothering idea just yet,” Jas told her, leaning his cheek against her hair. “If he’s Patsy-bad, we might have to do it for his own good. Like a dog with rabies.”

“Love and rabies do have a lot in common,” Maria told him, nodding solemnly. “They’re both infectious and terminal. If I ever catch it, would you put me out of my misery?”

“If you ever catch love,” Jas answered her, matching her solemnity, “I promise to YouTube all the mooning about and swooning. And then I’ll buy the lucky guy a drink and threaten to break his face if he ever hurts you.”

“Aww, you do care.” Maria rolled her head back to smile up at Jasper’s big brown eyes. 

“‘Course I do, Mars.” He kissed her cheek. “Always have and always will. And if you catch _rabies_ , I’ll take you out back and shoot you.”

____

Clint watched the tension bleed out of Nat’s shoulders as the football fanatics began to drift away, still calling cheerful insults and exchanging the occasional high five or handshake with the other team’s fans. He half-wished he’d been paying enough attention to figure out which team had won, because the verbal abuse on both sides seemed both good-natured and extreme, and it gave no clue to the final score. He mentally brushed it off and tried to get his mind back on the upcoming meeting. Mostly, his mind stayed stubbornly fixed on Phil and the mystery of his black eye.

With the crowd no longer taking up all the sightlines, he spotted the jukebox in the center of the bar. It was one of the fancy, internet-enabled ones, capable of playing nearly any song ever recorded. His pocket jingled with quarters, and he looked up at Nat, attempting to smile at her. She had clearly seen his target, and she gave the jukebox a look that usually meant she was inches away from blowing something up or electrocuting it to death.

“No, Clint.” She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. “I have another ninety minutes before Zeg is supposed to be here, and I will _not_ listen to that song twenty times in a row. No.”

“Sorry, Nat. The muse has spoken.” He pushed away from the table and stumbled slightly, legs shaky from sitting in one position too long after the adrenaline rush of the afternoon. “Be right back.”

Just before he got to the jukebox to pull up his song, another man stepped up and began feeding in a handful of change. 

He had soft brown, thinning hair and broad shoulders, a perfect jawline, and the slightest crook to his nose that spoke of more than one strike to his handsome, freckled face. Even though Clint couldn’t see the face directly, there was no mistaking that ass. And those thighs. And the hand that clenched and twitched before sliding into the pocket of his slacks. 

He’d know that man in a dark room full of men in black suits. He’d know that man in a crowd of men in black swarming across a bullet-riddled dock.

The plinky, plaintive piano notes and humming harmonies of backup singers spilled quietly out of the speakers, and, just as Patsy’s first heartfelt accusation of her own insanity began, Phil turned around and saw Clint. His eyes widened, and his mouth went slack with shock and recognition, and Clint froze, unable to read if it was a good shock or a very, _very_ bad one.

Phil’s face was haggard, lines around his eyes and mouth deeper-etched than they’d been before… before everything. His skin seemed paler, freckles standing out against his skin. Or maybe he’d just gone as bloodless as Clint felt, seeing Clint in such an unexpected place. Clint wanted to pull him in close, ask what horrible thing had happened during their month-long separation to make him seem older, weaker, smaller. Clint’s body wouldn’t move though, rooted in the fear that he knew the answer already. Afraid that the cause of Phil’s sad eyes and lack of care for himself was Clint himself.

“C… Cl…” Phil choked on the sharp consonant, eyes going soft and hungry. His cheeks flushed, and the corners of his mouth tucked up into that painfully familiar half-smile that warmed Clint’s entire chest. “Clint.” Phil’s voice came out low and rough. 

Clint unfroze in an instant and closed the distance between them in three steps. 

If the universe had decided to end their unwanted, unwelcome separation, who was Clint to deny the force of the stars, or whatever the hell it was. Phil’s arms surrounded him as soon as he was in reach, one clutched tightly around Clint’s waist and the other around his shoulders. Clint hugged back just as hard, squeezing tightly enough to make Phil’s ribs creak.

“Oh thank God,” Clint muttered before tilting his chin and covering Phil’s mouth with his own.

The bar around them and Patsy’s lovely alto disappeared under the relief of _finally_ having their lips together again, tasting the hops of Phil’s beer and the Buffalo sauce Clint had been eating earlier. Phil pulled away first, teeth scraping across Clint’s bottom lip as he went, and Clint whimpered at the familiarly wicked sensation.

Phil hummed thoughtfully and darted out his tongue to brush over the seam of Clint’s lips.

“Spicy,” he said, staring at Clint with hooded eyes and a nervous half-smile.

Giddiness bubbled up, building from the hope he’d felt as soon as he’d recognized Phil’s peerless ass and beautiful jawline.

“To the last drop!” Clint blurted, and Phil blinked once before he fell into Clint’s chest, laughing hard enough to shake them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Mysteries solved and secrets revealed; questions asked and answered; how do we get from saying goodbye to happily ever after?
> 
> One more to go, folks! Unless I get verbose and have to split it again. Taking the weekend off to enjoy some good friends, good booze, and bacon, and I'll be back to work on Monday!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now the conclusion

Jasper sipped his beer in silence for a minute, trying to not jostle Maria where she leaned too hard against his shoulder. The first plunky-piano notes drifted through the bar, followed by Patsy’s powerful alto: Phil had found his song. Jasper snorted, finished the last of his drink, and set the glass on the table.

“So what happened to Fury and Zeg after we got back to HQ?” he asked, leaning his cheek against Maria’s silky hair. He stretched one arm along the back of the single bench that curled around the table, and settled into the deepest part of the corner.

“Dunno. Fury said he had a car waiting with their luggage, and then the two of them kinda vanished.” Mars sighed and wiggled, settling herself deeper into the seat and Jas’s side. “He does that weird disappearing thing, and so does Zeg, so...how do you think it’s going to be with them _together_?”

Jasper felt his face squinch, and he shivered. “I don’t want to think of them together. In any way. I’ve heard too much about that from _both_ of them.” He shuddered again. “No, what _I_ want to know is why Barton and Romanov were waiting for us on the dock, and where the hell they went with Basil.”

Maria made some kind of vague noise that might have been assent or disagreement or even just a general acknowledgement. It could also have been the sound of her falling asleep. Jas managed to hold still another three seconds before his bladder protested, and he knew he’d have to move or humiliate himself. Humiliation not being his kink, moving it had to be.

“Budge up.” Jasper bounced his shoulder under Maria’s head, trying to shake her loose against him without actually knocking her into the floor. The sheer volume of alcohol she’d had to drink made it a bit dicey to figure how much jiggling was okay, and how much would completely unbalance her. “Beer’s catching up to me.”

Maria heaved a dramatic sigh, probably rolling her eyes at him, but she pushed herself upright so that he could slide out of the booth. 

“Don’t fall in,” she snarked up at him as he rose. She picked up her glass and took another swallow, watching him owlishly over the rim. 

_Goddamn, she’s gorgeous._

The thought hit from nowhere, nearly taking Jasper off his feet with the force of it. Even three sheets to the wind, she looked cool and in control, and he resisted his sudden urge to reach over and ruffle her hair. He tripped over an empty chair at the next table, mumbled an apology to it, and hustled toward the bathroom, flustered, flushed, and thoroughly confused.

It wasn’t until several days later that he realized his preoccupation with the shock of becoming aware of his previously unacknowledged attraction was probably to blame for what happened next. If his attention hadn’t been turned so far inward, he might have seen the reunion going on by the jukebox. If he’d seen _that_ , he’d have known to expect what happened next, and he could have avoided the second most uncomfortable moment of his life.

Jas re-zipped himself and had just reached for the lock when the quiet of the empty restroom was broken by the outer door banging open. Stumbling footsteps clattered against the tile-- more a single person-- and Jas quickly pulled open the stall door, not wanting to stick around long enough to listen to a drunken hook-up. He froze when he saw who was pressed against the door and who had them pressed there. 

Phil stood there, head thrown back, Barton’s mouth attached to his neck. As Clint sucked at him, Phil’s eyes dropped shut, harsh pants scraping out of his throat. One of Phil’s large hands gripped Barton’s ass, pulling their hips together in an undulating wave of motion that had the door creaking behind them and Barton moaning and growling, hissing out words that sounded filthy to Jas, even though he couldn’t clearly hear them. Phil’s fingers wiggled into the back of Barton’s waistband, and Jas barely had time to wonder where Barton’s hands had wandered off to before he heard the distinctive sound of a belt buckle releasing, the soft clatter unnaturally loud in the silence of the room. 

Jas reassured himself that, any minute there, he would manage to look away. Certainly his horror over _that_ happening in front of him _again_ would release its hold on his limbs, and he would be able to curse at them and get them out of the way long enough to free himself. Any...time...now…

Barton’s knees hit the slightly suspect floor, and Phil’s back bowed off the door as he groaned out a plea, reaching down to twist his fingers in Barton’s hair. Jas caught too much of an eyeful of Phil’s dick, enormous, veiny, purple, and incredibly ugly, before Barton licked his lips and opened wide to swallow it down. At that point, having stared too long, the only polite thing for Jasper to do was slink back into his stall and quietly relock the door. He put his fingers in his ears, pretending he didn’t feel juvenile at doing so, and hummed quietly to himself in hopes of drowning out any errant sounds of guy-on-Phil action.

As he waited for them to, er, finish up, Jas wondered what had happened to Phil’s situational awareness. Normally, the weight of someone watching him would be enough to drag him from a deep sleep; no one could stare at him for long without attracting his attention. And Phil was, hopefully, not quite sadistic enough to have realized Jasper was there and let things get to open flies and oral pleasure. Hopefully. 

He wondered if they’d both been so unaware out in the field while apart, or if the intense focus on each other was a side effect of this unexpected reunion. Clearly, this _thing_ between them needed some resolution, and quickly, or they’d neither one be able to do their damn jobs, and someone would end up dead.

Jasper fought to keep from beating his head against the flimsy stall door behind him, crooning a bit louder as an echoing moan penetrated his bubble of humming and denial. He started to wonder if maybe one of them getting killed would be preferable after all, and if maybe the lack of unintentional voyeurism that followed would be worth doing the honors himself.

____

Clint wasn’t sure _exactly_ how he’d gone from standing by a jukebox that belted out Patsy Cline to kneeling in front of Phil in the restroom. There had been kissing in there, he was sure of that much, and the tingling in his lips from Phil’s teeth and stubble backed his memory. There had been murmurs of sound, not words, because they’d both been too far gone to talk as soon as their lips had broken apart after that first, breath-stealing, heart-stopping kiss. There had been some groping, too, if Clint remembered correctly, but he had no idea if he’d been the groper or the grope-ee, and he decided he didn’t much give a damn, either way. All he could be certain of was that he had knelt at Phil’s feet, opened Phil’s fly, and had Phil’s thick, hot, _gorgeous_ erection waving in his face. He licked his lips and leaned forward, sliding his mouth around the head and sucking as he pressed in closer.

He choked as he tried to swallow Phil and groan in bliss at once. The saltymuskyskin of it tasted so familiar, so _home_ , and whatever hurting he’d done between saying goodbye and ending up here--on his knees, worshiping Phil with his mouth and his tongue, drawing him in and drawing him close--ceased to matter. His heart swelled, and his breath caught, and oh god, Clint wasn’t going to walk away again. _Couldn’t_ walk away again. 

Not unless Phil still needed him to.

A sob caught in Clint’s throat at that thought, quickly smothered by a rolling thrust of Phil’s hips. There would be time to talk later, maybe, after Phil had been satisfied, after Clint had gotten just this one taste to tide him over. He _needed_ this, needed the reassurance that the light he’d read in Phil’s eyes, at the dock that afternoon, by the jukebox, had been _real_. That Phil still loved him, still cared, still wanted him. This moment was about reassurance, remembered love, finding courage to go on.

Aww, who was Clint trying to kid? He’d missed Phil so goddamned badly that his libido had woken up and said hello as soon as he’d clapped eyes on those broad, beautiful shoulders out in the bar. He’d wanted to suck and fuck and feel Phil against his body the moment he’d recognized him. And, while the attraction was not entirely physical, Phil was still the hottest man Clint had ever seen, and he was the best lover Clint had ever known. 

Clint sucked hard, rubbing hard with his tongue on an outward bob of his head, and Phil twitched, fingers tightening enough to create a flare of pain across Clint’s scalp. The pressure released instantly, and Phil’s hand shifted to grip hard at Clint’s shoulder instead. His other hand smoothed once over the back of Clint’s head and then reached out to clutch hard at the edge of the counter next to them, as if Phil would collapse without the extra support

“Missed you, babe,” Phil said, voice hoarse and broken.”Oh _fuck_ , that’s good. Missed everything about you. Lonely since you left. So fucking-- Oh, Jesus!” Clint tried to smile, glancing up through his lashes as Phil’s head dropped forward and their eyes met. “Hate it without you. Every day since you’ve-- Shit, you’re good at that! Every goddamned day, Clint, it’s been fucking _hell_.”

Phil pressed a finger to the hollow of Clint’s cheek, swiping gently, and it was only then that Clint realized tears were slowly tracking down his cheeks. His vision blurred as the trickle turned into a flood, and he blinked rapidly, not wanting to miss a moment of the pleasure on Phil’s face.

“I love you, Clint,” Phil whispered, and Clint closed his eyes and slid Phil deeper in his throat. Phil gave a cut-off growl above him, and Clint pulled back to lick, working his hand along Phil’s shaft, as he swallowed down the orgasm that followed with only one momentary wish that he could pull back and let Phil mark him, streak it across his face.

____

Natasha toyed with the bones in the wing basket, snapping them first between both hands, and then between the fingers of one hand at a time. Clint had been gone long enough to relieve himself, start his stupid song, _and_ get in trouble. If he’d found himself in the middle of something messy, he’d surely have given a shout. She huffed an angry sigh and wiped her fingers on her napkin before heaving herself to her feet and going to find Clint and possibly rescue him from an unwise hookup. 

A blonde woman, beautiful and curvaceous, stood at the jukebox, and, although she had the haircolor right and a blue flannel shirt that looked incredibly similar to one hanging back in Clint’s closet, she was _not_ Clint. The woman pressed a few buttons, grinned over at a handsome man with silver hair and an earring, and sauntered back to the table they shared. The last notes of the song that had followed Patsy faded away to be replaced by a walking bass line and bright piano chords. 

_Better than Sinead._

And then Marvin Gaye began to croon, and Nat sighed heavily. Perhaps she’d been a bit too hasty; maybe Sinead wasn’t so bad, after all. 

No. No! Sinead was worse. _Especially_ when accompanied by an out-of-tune archer. 

Trying to turn off her hearing, Nat glanced past the jukebox into the far half of the bar and realized both where Clint had gone _and_ what he was doing. Or maybe who he was doing. Either way, it was obvious in an instant that Clint wasn’t coming back until his head was fucked right back up the way it’d been after Amsterdam.

Probably.

“Goddamnit, Clint,” she muttered. She glanced around, and huffed a sigh. Couldn’t he have waiting until _after_ they’d met with Zeg to wander off and get lost in Phil again?

In the third booth back from the front of the bar, listing precariously to one side, sat SHIELD Agent Maria Hill, still in the uniform she’d worn on the dock, still sleek and dangerous in spite of her obvious drunkenness. She sat alone, but three cardboard coasters, each with a ring of condensation, rested on the table in front of her; if Nat had to guess, she’d put money on Sitwell lurking around some corner. Or maybe he had wandered off and stumbled upon whatever closet Clint and Phil had occupied to have their, er, _reunion_. Poor Jas. 

Nat furrowed her brow and stalked over to Hill as silently as she knew how. She grabbed a chair from the table across from the booth and spun it around, dropping to sit backward on it as she spoke.

“Hullo, Hill.”

Hill opened one eye and snorted. “So that’s where Phil disappeared to.”

“And Sitwell?” Nat nodded at the third coaster on the table. “Did he go to stop a sexual apocalypse?”

Hill frowned down at the little cardboard disks for a long moment, as if memorizing the beer labels printed on them; the gears in her brain appeared to be moving more slowly than usual.

“Said he was gonna pee, I think.” She looked back up at Nat and blinked slowly and carefully. “I _think_ he would have warned me if he knew Phil was running off to get laid.”

Nat hummed thoughtfully and scooted her chair closer to Hill’s table.

“Clint’s been in a bad way since we came home,” she said softly. “I think he’d decided to stay married to Phil forever and just hope for a day they could…” She trailed off and sighed. “We’ve gone legitimate,” she continued, and Hill’s focus sharpened. “Sort of legitimate. As close as we can, at least, I think.”

“What do you mean?” 

“We’re working for Waarzegster.” Nat scooted the chair closer again until the slats on the back bumped the edge of the table and she could fold her elbows on the tabletop. “I didn’t know if that would be… I’d hoped that would make us near enough to not _illegal_ that maybe…”

“Romanov,” Hill said, also leaning forward, her face eager and her eyes bright, “I don’t care if you work for fucking AIM at this point. I just can’t live through another month like the last one!” She waved one hand vaguely, and her chin sank down to rest on her other forearm. “I didn’t know he was _actually_ in love. Not until we got back and it was too late. Until I thought it was too late. Or he did. Or something. But, seriously, I don’t care what Barton’s doing. Phil needs him.”

“What about SHIELD?” Nat asked slowly. “Wouldn’t _they_ have something to say about Phil and Clint?”

Hill snorted again. “Please! I mean, fucking enemy combatants is frowned on, of course. Because of the possibilities of compromising an agent. But look at Fury and Zeg. Thirty years of clandestine meetings and doing I don’t even _want_ to know what. It wasn’t _well_ known, but a lot of us knew that he was involved with _someone_ he didn’t want to talk to SHIELD about.”

Nat pondered that, turning over the implications. “But he’s the director. Who could tell him what to do?”

“Nuh-uh.” Hill straightened up and shook her head emphatically. “He doesn’t _do_ double-standards. The whole not-keeping-Barton-around, that was all Phil. I think he was afraid of dividing his loyalties, of trying to decide if he put his job or his husband first-- and _God_ , that’s still so fucking weird to say.”

A server came over, and Hill enthusiastically ordered another beer. She raised an eyebrow at Nat, and, after the slightest hesitation, Nat nodded in agreement. When the server had gone again, Hill turned back to the topic of Phil.

“Seriously, though. I can’t even _imagine_ what this whole thing has been like on the inside of Phil’s head.” She tapped her own forehead. “He’s been wandering around like some kind of grouchy-ass robot. Honestly, Natasha.” She shook her head and sighed. “Falling in love seems like a really stupid thing to do.”

The server returned with their drinks, and Nat held her glass up.

“To _that_ , I can drink.” Nat hadn’t missed the change in address from Hill, and she decided to risk returning the favor. “To not falling in love, Maria.”

Maria grinned at her, sharp and dangerous as she hoisted her own glass. 

“Here, here.” She took a deep gulp and then thumped the glass on the table. “Seriously though. Have you seen Jas anywhere? He was supposed to go home with me. He makes a good pillow. Seriously, though.”

Nat bit her lip as she studied the slight frown to Maria’s lips and the crease between her brows. She thought of their protectiveness of one another in Amsterdam, the way they had seemed to drift together in Zeg’s house, the possessive glare Maria hadn’t even realized she had been leveling at Malene during their enforced isolation. A laugh bubbled up as amusement warmed Nat’s stomach. In her mind, she amended their toast.

 _Here’s to_ me _, at least, avoiding the complication of love._

She took another deep swallow of beer. Hopefully Clint would finish his tryst and remember that he had a job to do. On the other hand, Zeg would probably understand his absence, when they found out he was with Phil.

____

Unfortunately, Phil's orgasm had barely begun when he was struck by the horrible realization that Clint on his knees was _too far away_ from Phil’s arms. It had been a _very_ good blowjob, but he wanted to hold Clint, kiss him, keep him close. Even more unfortunate, he was in no position to _do anything_ about the distance from his own mouth to Clint’s, as his muscles had already locked-- all but his hips and thighs, which continued to thrust forward and forward again, as if the contact with Clint’s mouth could make up for all the parts of their bodies that could not touch in that position. The waves of electric bliss continued rolling down Phil’s spine far longer that should have been humanly possible, but eventually the sensation faded enough for Phil to move his hand from Clint’s cheek to his hair, fingers knotting and tugging lightly in a useless attempt to drag Clint to his feet, to get him _closer_.

Clint grinned at him, swollen-lipped and flushed, and surged up, hands grabbing at Phil’s still-bared hips as he closed on Phil’s mouth. The eroticism of tasting himself on Clint’s tongue made his groin heat, and-- not for the first time since they’d met, and God and SHIELD willing, not for the last-- Phil wished he could turn the clock back twenty-five years so that he could already be preparing for round two.

“Touch me, Phil,” Clint growled into Phil’s ear, leaning forward to nip sharply at the tendon on the side of his neck. “A hand, a thigh, don’t care. Gotta get off. Fuck! Need you!”

Letting Clint move away far enough to get a hand around him was _not_ happening. Phil tightened his arms, pulling Clint closer and letting him rut against his hipbone. Clint gasped, sighed happily, and then gasped again, shocked, as Phil shoved him away.

“Wait, just let me…” Phil spun them both, twisting as he moved, until he had Clint pressed to the edge of a sink, plastering himself along the wide, muscular bulk of Clint’s beautiful back. “Want to see you, babe. Want to see _and_ feel.”

Clint leaned back into Phil’s chest, liquid and pliant, smiling lazily at Phil’s reflection in the mirror. His lips were still red and puffed, and a flush highlighted the swell of his cheekbones. Phil couldn’t resist stretching forward to press his lips against the blush on Clint’s face, just to feel the warmth.

“Mmm, better.” He reached down with shaking hands to unbutton Clint’s jeans, lowering the zip and pressing one hand through the open fly to spread his palm along Clint’s lower stomach. The hard swell of Clint’s cock trapped his hand in place, pinned as it was by unforgiving denim. Phil rubbed his spent cock against the roughness of the fabric covering Clint’s ass, and Clint bucked back against him.

“You’re killing me, babe.” Clint’s voice came out rough and soft and hungry. “But, God, I’ll die happy.”

Phil laughed softly and pushed Clint’s jeans halfway down his thighs, tracing the sharp edges of Clint’s hipbones before reaching around to give his erection a soft stroke. 

“I see you still haven’t found underwear.” Phil watched the reflection of his hand, hypnotized by the minute flexes in Clint’s stomach as he pumped his hips gently with each caress of Phil’s palm. “Don’t know how you do it with this thing in jeans that tight.”

Clint chuckled and let his head fall back to rest on Phil’s shoulders, The smooth skin of his perfect ass rubbed against where Phil had mostly softened following his orgasm, sending tiny bolts of electricity through Phil’s balls. He gripped Clint’s hip tightly, pulling him back enough to tuck himself between Clint’s muscular cheeks. Clint sighed happily, wriggling in pleasure. Phil kissed Clint’s ear tenderly, warmed as much by the contentment on Clint’s face as by the heat of his body. He slid both hands up Clint’s abs, shoving the t-shirt up as he did, tracing the edges of scars he’d explored so many times with his tongue.

This, having sex in the bathroom of his favorite bar, was probably the dumbest thing Phil had ever done, short only of letting Anton blow him after he’d been hit in the head by Portier’s henchman. On the other hand, _that_ decision had worked out well for him, in the end. Sort of. Mostly. At least until time had come for them to part ways, and Phil had watched his heart walk away. It had been perfect until then. Mostly perfect. Perfect except for the shadow of goodbye that hung over both their heads. 

Phil peeled Clint’s shirt up and off and froze just as he reached out to drop it onto the counter. 

A thick chain hung around Clint’s neck, and, dangling at the lowest point on Clint’s chest, rested a wide silver band.

“You’re…You have... That’s…” Phil dropped the shirt quickly and reached to Clint’s chest, covering the ring with his hand and pressing the metal into Clint’s skin. 

Clint tensed and began to straighten, pulling away, and Phil clutched at him with both arms, frantic to keep him close.

“Wait, no, I…” He fumbled at his belt loop, pinching his finger in his haste to get the carabiner loose, to hold it up and show Clint his own ring. It came free at last, and he looped his arm over Clint’s shoulder, holding it up like a prize winning fish. “Me, too,” he whispered and Clint let out a strangled sob and twisted his head back for a hot, hungry kiss.

Phil fumbled across Clint’s chest until he had both rings caught in one hand, squeezing until they bit into his palm. Clint arched under his touch as he slid his hand down Clint’s stomach, wordlessly crying out as Phil’s fingers wrapped tightly around his erection, already pulling him toward completion.

____

“Nicholas, love, we have a question.” Zeg bumped into Nick’s side, and he pulled them more snuggly against him, taking advantage of the momentum of the car swinging around a corner. The two of them had been picked up in front of Nick’s building by a dark, unmarked car driven by one of Nick’s most discreet agents, someone he knew wouldn’t spread tales of any _canoodling_ that might happen in the backseat.

He hummed absently, kissing Zeg’s temple and nuzzling into the silken black of their hair, mentally cursing the fuzziness of the multicolored shawl they’d flung about their shoulders before leaving the apartment. It tickled his throat and lips as he cuddled them against his chest.

“You know we’re giving you a present tonight, yes?” Zeg straightened slightly, tilting their head to rub their smooth cheek against his goatee.

He hummed again, less absent and more in agreement, letting the haze of contentment roll away from him as he heard Zeg’s voice slowly slipping into the lazy drawl of Waarzegster. Whatever came next would be the opening move in the next round of the endless chess match the two of them had been playing for twenty-odd years. Nick had once thought Zeg spread naked across a bed was the height of beauty, and then he’d seen them focused on the the game and realized that nothing could _ever_ be as sexy as them in action.

“We will see to it that you can claim your prize… if--” Zeg shuffled restlessly, shifting until they could rest their chin on Nick’s shoulder, whisper directly into his ear. “If you will grant us one small boon. Such a tiny favor to grant, for someone in your position. Something that will take so _little_ effort and barely any time at all.”

“So it’s my time you’re worried about now, is it?” Nick couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice, but he did manage to keep a straight face.

“You won’t _let_ us worry out loud over your health, love,” Zeg snapped, losing all trace of the aristocratic lilt they used for work as their spine stiffened and they pulled away to glare at him. In the flickering lights of storefronts and streetlights, Nick could still see the glitter of Zeg’s temper rising. They stopped themself after taking another breath for the next flare of temper, chuckled, and deflated, settling back into the loose circle of his arm. “That was against the rules, Nick. We’re discussing business, not personal”

“When have either of us missed a chance to cheat?” Nick grinned at them and slid his hand up their arm, over their shoulder, stopping when he could burrow one thumb into the heap of yarn and find the smooth skin of their neck beneath. 

“Fine. Basil.” Zeg turned their tone sharper, more purposeful. “Make him not exist.”

“You’ve been here eight hours, and you’re already asking me to abuse resources _and_ my position.” Nick sighed dramatically and shook his head. “Is the magic so dead?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nick.” Zeg smiled at him and glanced out the window at the city lights rolling by. “First off, we’ve been asking you to abuse resources for twenty-eight years. You should have come to expect it of us by now. Second, that _is_ the magic, love. And don’t say this comes as a surprise to you after all these years.”

“Twenty-eight years ago, I was just a lowly field agent,” Nick countered, feeling a deep warmth as he settled into the rhythm of their standard banter. “I didn’t have much power to abuse _or_ to catch your eye with way back when.”

Zeg snorted,and when they spoke again, their voice had gone clipped and waspish in the way they only _ever_ talked to Nick. He took it as a sign of trust that let him see the real Zeg: impatient, impulsive, and slightly hostile. Damn, they were sexy like that. “Twenty-eight years ago, you’d already learned to access power that wasn’t yours for the taking, _and_ you were clearly the only man who could rise as high as you have. If that level of potentiality hadn’t been there, we never would have looked twice.”

“Are you saying you only love me for my job, baby?” Nick faked a scowl and pulled away, folding his arms over his chest in mock displeasure.

“Of course not, darling.” Zeg twisted in the seat, pulling one trouser-clad leg up to rest their knee on his thigh. They leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Nick’s mouth, good hand clutched around his forearm, fingernails tracing light patterns over the thin skin in the crook of his arm. “We’re saying we were first attracted by how competently you did your job. We fell in love with the marshmallow underneath the talent and badassery.”

Nick smiled at them and reached out to pull them into his arms, scooting as close as he could without jarring the cast on their leg. “Let me see what I can do about Basil.”

The car pulled smoothly near the curb, and the driver quit pretending to be deaf and blind as he climbed out and came around to open their door.

“I think this is your stop, sir and ma-- and Waarzegster.” He tossed a brisk salute, but Nick saw the twinkle in the man’s eye and winked at him over Zeg’s shoulder.

Zeg turned to look at the bar, studying the faded sign and unassuming exterior, and then turned back to lean into Nick. They chuckled, dark and rich against his ear.

“It reminds us of the place where we two first met,” they whispered, hot breath on his neck making him shiver. “Do you remember?”

“Baby, that is one thing I can say with all honesty that I will _never_ forget.” He leaned forward to kiss them softly on the full curve of their painted bottom lip. “I don’t even _need_ the scar over my kidney to remind me of the first time I laid eyes on you.”

Zeg laughed again, stealing one more kiss before he eased past them to climb out, turning back to offer a hand with their cane and the awkwardness of climbing from a car with an injured leg.  
____

Maria watched Natasha fidget and wiggle. She glanced over her shoulder and scanned the corners of the room, over and over, until the nerviness started affecting Maria’s buzz. _That_ was a party foul.

“You can sit over here, you know.” She patted the seat of the booth next to her. “Good sightlines. Phil picked the booth, long time ago. We’ve used it for years.”

Nat looked around once more and nodded, standing up and grabbing her half-empty beer. She settled into the booth, carefully leaving enough space to get momentum for a decent jab with a knife, should the need arise. Maria huffed a laugh and kicked at the chair until Natasha reached out a foot to help. Between them, they got it turned around, and both of them rested their feet on the seat, settling into a companionable silence as they drank. 

“Your boyfriend certainly takes a long time to relieve himself,” Nat said, frowning at the last swallow of beer in her glass. 

“Maybe he caught up to Phil and Barton and is trying to talk some sense into them.” Maria shrugged before reaching into a pocket on the outside of her thigh and pulling out her cellphone. She pulled up the text string that always existed with Phil and Jas and typed in a quick message.

_I’ve found a Russian. What do you have?_

A reply from Jasper came through almost immediately.

_MY EYES! MY EARS! I’m trapped! Call for backup! Send help!_

Maria huffed a laugh, and Natasha glanced at her curiously. She tilted the phone so that they could both see the screen, and Natasha raised one eyebrow and huffed out a frustrated sigh.

“They’re fucking again, aren’t they.” It wasn’t a question, and Maria didn’t bother to answer, already tapping out a reply to Jas.

 _Shouldn’t take them long, at least. Just lie back and think of Fury._ Maria debated adding a smiley face, but sent it emoticon-free. She might be drunk, and she might be cruel, but she was not drunk enough to be _that_ cruel.

_I need new friends._

It _might_ have just been the beer, but Maria still found herself laughing aloud as she scooted closer to Natasha to show her the end of the conversation. The quiet laugh it earned felt like an achievement, and Maria dropped her phone on the table and relaxed enough to close her eyes.

“This _does_ look like a cozy party.” A richly accented, very _familiar_ voice spoke from above. “Do you mind if we two join you?” 

Maria sat upright, kicking over the chair on which her feet rested as she tried to untangle her ankles and rattling the barware on the tabletop.

“We didn’t mean to startle you,” Zeg continued, sliding into the curved booth beside Maria, forcing both women to shuffle sideways as Director Nick Fury himself sat on the edge of the seat beside Zeg. He flung an arm casually around their slender shoulders and smiled smugly at Maria. “It _is_ good that you’re both here, however, as our business does affect you both.”

Fury cleared his throat and glanced around. “What did you do with the boys?”

Alcohol overtook Maria’s good sense, and she answered before she could think of propriety.

“It’s more what Phil and Barton are doing to each other, and I guess Jasper’s being a voyeur. Or he went insane and ran away from the sight of Phil’s O Face. Again.”

Fury blinked once and then threw back his head to laugh. “I’m going to get us a couple rounds, baby. We’re clearly _way_ behind. Your usual?”

____

Clint had no idea what kind of nonsense poured out of his mouth as Phil’s hand gripped him, tight and rough and hot and so, so perfect. The leftover chub of Phil’s dick rubbed under his ass, sliding over every sensitive bit he had, sticking slightly to tug at his body hair, sending goosebumps down his legs and shivers of pleasure of his spine. Caught between those two sensations, held safe and warm by Phil’s strong arms and broad chest, the only power Clint had left for thinking focused entirely on one incredible, beautiful, _unbelievable_ thought.

Phil Coulson still carried Clint’s ring.

Attached to himself, no less, to keep it from getting lost. Tucked close and safe, where he could touch it and hold it and know it was there. Where it would remind him of Clint a hundred times a day as he sat and stood and reached into his pocket or moved just so and it bumped his hip. In the mirror, Clint watched Phil hook his chin over Clint’s shoulder so he could watch his hands move on Clint’s skin, one jacking him steadily while the other stroked his chest, his stomach, the top of his thighs-- anywhere he could reach. His lips moved, murmuring words of adoration, of _cherishing_ , against Clint’s neck.

“Missed this,” Phil said, pausing to punctuate with a nip to Clint’s shoulder. “Missed you. Missed holding you, seeing you, talking to you. Missed being with you. Watching you fall apart for me. Missed making you come.”

He continued talking, turning Clint into nothing but raw nerves as he outlined what he loved most to _do_ to Clint. He described, in rather graphic detail, the things he’d wanted to do but never gotten a chance to try. Clint’s knees began to shake, and he clutched at Phil’s forearms to keep himself from sliding to the floor, boneless and helpless. He floated as best he could, trying to burn every touch, every sound, every changing expression of Phil’s face into his memory.

Another, half-unwelcome thought intruded on Clint’s happy haze:

 _I am_ not _going to last much longer._

Phil’s sexy growl-- differentiated from Phil’s usual voice by the lack of mild, the deeper octave, and the truly _dirty_ things it said-- buzzed through Clint’s hearing aid, warming his spine and his gut and his balls and his--

“Fuck, Phil, I’m about to come!” Clint gasped, reaching back to grab Phil’s hips with both hands, holding him still and close for Clint to ride down against his dick, greedily imagining it buried inside his body. “Yes, fuck!”

“That’s the point, Clint,” Phil said, quiet and dangerous and so very hot. “Give it up for me, babe. Let me see--” He cut off with a groan that matched the one Clint let out as he pulsed and spilled and pulsed again, streaking the sink in front of them and Phil’s knuckles and his own thighs. “Just like that, babe. That’s perfect. Fuck! You’re fucking perfect.”

Clint shivered and panted, leaning back harder and letting Phil take his weight, support him, cradle him close, make him feel safe. Phil kissed down the side of Clint’s neck, light and possessive, carefully working his way out onto Clint’s shoulder before he opened his mouth and bit down, digging in hard and sucking firmly. 

“Fuck, yes!’ Clint reached up to knot his fingers in Phil’s thinning hair, holding him in place. “Lemme show the whole goddamn world I’m yours, baby.”

As wrapped up as they’d become in each other, neither Clint nor Phil heard the whispered chant from the stall halfway down the row of closed doors.

“Nononononononononononononononononono. No. No. No. Nonononononononoooo…”

____

Phil widened his stance and broadened his chest, letting his body buttress Clint’s trembling limbs. He nuzzled the soft skin behind Clint’s ear, whispering soft sounds without meaning, and Clint rumbled a quiet, happy noise.

“I love you.” Phil managed to suck up the courage to say it, and, reflected in the mirror, Clint’s face softened, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

“I love you, too, babe.” 

Without warning, Clint stiffened and pulled away, heaving his pants up and fumbling for his shirt.

“Oh my god! I fucking forgot Nat!”

Phil watched him, helpless, heartsick and sinking, as he yanked his shirt on inside out. He wanted to reach out, to catch Clint’s arm and pull him back, heave them both back five minutes in time to the moment where the world outside the circle of his arms existed, back to where there was no sister and no friends, no jobs with any claim on their time or hearts. Instead, he simply stared down at his own hand, at the drying tackiness across his knuckles, just waiting for his heart to break again.

Clint took three steps toward the door, froze, tensed all over, and spun back.

“I love you, Phil, okay? I love you, but I have to…” He cupped Phil’s face in gentle hands and leaned in to brush their lips together. “I _have_ to... I’ll… Really soon, okay?” He trailed off slowly, kissed Phil fiercely, and then he was gone.

The door shut behind him with a quiet bump, and Phil took a shaky breath and reached out to turn on the water, washing the evidence of their encounter off of his knuckles, off the ceramic, and down the drain. His hands stayed steady as he tucked himself away and refastened his pants, tucked in his shirttail, and looked up to smooth his hair.

A stall door opened halfway down the row of toilets, and Phil reached under his jacket, hand clenching tightly around the butt of his gun.

“I fucking hate you.” Jasper’s eyes were wide and wild, but his voice came out utterly steady. “I hate you, and I hate Barton, and I hope that you two manage to figure your shit out and go someplace with a bed and _doors that fucking lock_. Because, for God’s sake, I _never_ want to have to listen to the two of you fuck again!”

Phil decided not to comment that _twice_ now Jasper had simply picked a lock and walked in, making _those encounters_ entirely his own damn fault.

Jas stalked over to the counter, leaving several sinks between himself and Phil as he washed his hands. Phil watched him soap his hands with far more vigor than the task called for, muttering under his breath and scowling at his own reflection. He snagged a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and glared up at Phil, dimple nowhere to be seen.

“Now can we _please_ get out of this place so I don’t have to listen to the mental recording of Clint Fucking Barton-Coulson shouting that he’s about to fucking come anymore.”

Phil’s legs still shook as he led the way down the hallway outside the restrooms, the walk seeming far shorter now that he no longer had a husband pressing against his back and promising his every dream come true, no longer had Clint’s rough-calloused fingers tangled with his own, wasn’t stopping every few feet to kiss Clint’s perfect mouth and taste his tongue and teeth. Jasper stayed oddly silent at his side, face a complicated twist of disgust tinged with sympathy. Twice, he opened his mouth as if to say something, before glancing over at Phil, the understanding growing on his face as he did, and snapping his jaw shut with a click.

This last loss of Clint echoed in Phil’s chest, leaving him hollowed out. He tried to tell himself it was better this way, with Clint getting out before Phil could do something stupid, like beg him to stay. Beg him to make their marriage _real_ , beg him to do the one thing he would never do. Because Clint could not come in without Natasha, and she had made it very clear to Clint that she would never belong to any organization, not even SHIELD. And Phil respected them both too much to even begin to try to drive a wedge between the two.

Phil wiped his cheek surreptitiously as they reached the end of the hall, ignoring the way Jasper reached for his arm. He straightened his shoulders and ran a palm down the front of his shirt, smoothing it as he wore no tie to adjust. He was a goddamned Agent of SHIELD, and Agents didn’t fling themselves on the floor and howl just because life was not a Hallmark movie.

Taking a deep breath, Phil rounded the corner into the bar--

And stopped.

“Hey, babe.” Clint gave him a sheepish half-smile from where he leaned against the edge of a table only ten feet away.. “Hey, Jas. Sorry about the--” He waved a hand that tried to encompass Phil’s body, his own body, and what those bodies had done only a few minutes before-- “show.”

Maybe life resembled a sappy Saturday special a bit more than Phil had thought. When Clint’s hand came out, Phil reached back and let their fingers twist together as he stepped close to Clint’s side, perching his own ass on the tabletop beside Clint’s and turning his attention to the people who sat in the booth across from them. When he realized just who those people were, he nearly released Clint’s hand to snap to attention, but decided that he’d already gone without the comfort of that sure, strong grip long enough: his boss, his boss’s lover, his best friends, and Clint’s sister could deal.

Clint rumbled a sound somewhere between a sigh and purr and leaned into Phil’s shoulder, tension bleeding out of his body until he was nothing but a line of liquid heat pressing into Phil’s side, warming away the hurt that had lodged in Phil’s chest when he’d watched Clint run away again.

_____

Nat tried not to stare at Clint, at the softness in his eyes as he cast sideways glances at Phil, at the way their hands had tucked together like he’d found the missing piece of his puzzle. Phil turned to Clint, smiling a boyish sort of grin, happy and shy and full of his heart, and Clint returned the look with a dopey look of bliss. She kept her face still, refusing to show her anguish as she watched Clint, in love, confident, _content_.

She’d lost him. 

Oh, he’d _say_ he’d stay with her. He would probably even mean it as he spoke the words, but no, she couldn’t do that to him. Couldn’t ask him to stick to her side when he’d clearly found the place he was meant to be. He would stay with Phil, and he would join Phil at SHIELD, because that was how Clint loved: with his whole being. Well, she’d been alone before, and she’d long suspected she would eventually be alone again, and at least this was less painful than watching him bleeding out and dying. At least the only one bleeding from a chest wound was herself. 

She glanced once around the crowded booth--Zeg at the far end, Fury beside them with his arm stretched across their shoulders; Maria beside him, sinking drunkenly, and herself on the far end. Jasper stood in the aisle beside Natasha, and she quickly rose to let him slide in beside Maria, not wanting to let herself get pinned. 

Where they leaned against the table across the way, Phil tipped his head and whispered something in Clint’s ear, making his cheekbones brighten with a sudden flush. Phil laughed and brushed a soft kiss to the corner of Clint’s mouth. Nat swallowed and looked away, accidentally meeting Zeg’s eyes. They watched her with their usual impassive expression, but there was something in their wide blue eyes-- understanding maybe, sympathy. Nat lifted her chin, refusing to be pitied. Zeg’s cheeks curled up with their sudden smile, and, when they spoke, they did so in Russian, the language heavily accented and clumsy on their tongue.

“It will be...acceptable for you.” They nodded slightly, an encouraging sparkle lighting their eyes. “It will be seen to be. Yes.”

Nat cleared her throat and shifted restlessly in the seat. Just because she would _accept_ Clint leaving, that didn’t mean it would be _okay_. And there was no way that involving the Director of SHIELD in her business would be acceptable!

“The plans,” she said in English, ignoring both the hopeful look from Zeg and the implications that Zeg would manipulate things in Nat’s favor. That could all be thought about _after_. After the meeting. After her name and Clint’s were cleared of wrongdoing. After Clint left with his Phillip, and she tried to formulate her next step alone. “Yes. You have them for me?”

Zeg’s lips pursed slightly, eyes narrowing as they studied her. 

“The plans? The _weapon_ plans?” Sitwell’s voice came out sharper and higher than usual. “ _You_ have them?”

“Well not _on_ us, of course!” Zeg said, pouting over at him. Fury suddenly barked a sharp, unexpected laugh. Nat jumped, earning her a questioning glance from Maria. Zeg shook their hair back from their face. “They’re with an associate, safe and hidden from everyone except Natasha and Mr. Barton.”

Nat blinked once. “So if they’re where we left Basil, why are we here? Why didn’t you have us bring them to you? Or to--” She nodded to the one-eyed man at their side-- “him.”

“Because we would have certain agreements in place before we entrust them to his care.” Zeg lifted one eyebrow at Fury, challenging and enticing at once, and he gave another of those quick laughs. “He can be trusted with many things, but we prefer to have guarantees.”

“Alright, Z.” He leaned forward, his hands circling the double whisky in front of him. “You have your witnesses for whatever promises you want to extort out of me. What are you looking for me to do?”

Zeg’s smile became predatory as they glanced around the table, and Maria shifted uncomfortably on the seat. Sitwell looped his arm across the back of her shoulders, and she settled, tipping further into his chest. Nat looked over to find Sitwell watching her, dimple showing but wearing no other trace of a smile. The smugness of him startled a chuckle out of Nat, and she looked away to find Clint watching her with a direct look that she knew well.

 _Are you okay?_ his eyes asked. And knowing he still looked to her for reassurance loosened some of the tightness in her throat. She nodded, once, and he smiled at her, honest and full of all the same affection his smile always held. Another knot, this one in her stomach, untangled. If only her heart would stop hurting so. Stupid heart! Irrational things, feelings. If Clint wished to form a partnership with another, that was his right. It shouldn’t make her feel _sad_.

“We have in our employ two very _capable_ persons, both of whom would be great assets to your organization.” Zeg toyed with the stem of their wine glass, turning their head to focus their intense gaze on Fury’s one-eyed stare. “We dare say they are more skilled than all but very, very few of your agents.”

“I’m aware that you poach people I want to recruit. Been doing it for years.” Fury took a quick sip from his glass. “You usually take ‘em on and keep ‘em. What makes this time any different?”

“We wish to retire,” Zeg said and then bit their lip and looked away, blinking into the middle distance for only a few seconds before looking back with an ironic twist to their lips. “ _Mostly_ retire, at the least. If we do so, we’ll no longer have need of their skills. _They_ , however, are far too valuable to waste. We would hate to have them picked up by the wrong sort of people”

“You want me to take them on.” Fury made it a statement, and Nat tensed, ready to fight her way free. He wouldn’t find claiming her so easy. 

She scowled at Zeg, feeling betrayed that they thought they could own her so thoroughly after such a short time. _No one_ could simply pass her on, _sell_ her. Zeg shot her a quelling look from across the table, and she slipped her hand down to rest on one of her hidden knives. A lifted eyebrow showed that Zeg had seen the movement, and they huffed softly, looking pleased.

“Don’t be so simple, Nicholas.” Zeg looked back at Fury, tone light and mocking. “You have nothing with which to keep them. Well, one of them, at least, has no ties to _you_ at all.” Their lips pressed together in a small pucker of contemplation for a moment. “Yet. Loyalty is earned, especially from assets like these. _You_ know this well. We propose you bring them in as consultants, specialists. _If_ you meet their exacting standards, _then_ you can offer them full time employment.”

“ _If?_ ” Fury raised his one visible eyebrow and glanced at Natasha. “You know I have work they’d do and do well that wouldn’t interfere with their delicate morals.”

Clint grunted derisively, and Phil echoed the sound. Nat chuckled and leaned back, forcing herself to appear relaxed. Neither she nor Clint had much in the way of morals, but it wasn’t _that_ which worried her.

 

“Director Fury--” She began, but Fury interrupted, raising a hand to cut her off.

“Don’t even go there, Ms. Romanov,” he said, chuckling softly. “I’m not the director of anything right now. I’m just a man on a date with his partner, interrupting a get-together between some of my coworkers and a coupla friends of there. Please call me Nick.”

She eyed him suspiciously, trying to puzzle out the apparent openness of his expression. While he still wore the long, black leather coat he’d had on the docks, the rest of his clothing was dressed down. A turtleneck sweater, soft and slightly fuzzy, over a pair of dark grey slacks, and he wasn’t _visibly_ armed. His lips were quirked with a hint of a smile, and the sparkle in his eye suggested he was joking about something. Or at least that he understood the joke being told and didn’t object to being the butt of it.

“Nick…” Nat said slowly. She took a deep breath, licking her lips and looking down at her fingers as she toyed with the edge of one of the coasters. “It’s not my _morals_ that are at risk of being offended.” She looked up, glaring into his one good eye. “I will _not_ , however, be owned by you or your organization. I belong to _no one_ but myself.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.” He made a sound that might have a been either a laugh or a sigh, a grunt that meant everything and nothing. “SHIELD doesn’t _want_ people to belong to it. Loyalty, sure. But no more of that than, say, the CIA or the FBI. And I appreciate _personal_ loyalty, sure, but it’s not a job requirement. I’m sure a quarter of my people hate my fucking guts.”

“Oh, easily half, sir,” Maria said, lifting her head away from Sitwell’s shoulder to grin impishly at her boss. “A solid two-thirds, when you get going.”

“Fuck you, too, Hill.” Nick grinned back, affectionate and playful, and suddenly looking like a completely different man. He schooled his expression back to something closer to the man who’d walked in with Waarzegster on his arm. “And, while I don’t appreciate being told how to do my job--” He shot a glare at Zeg, who simply blinked limpidly at him and took another swallow from their glass-- “Z has a point. You don’t even have to come in to work for me. I could hire you and your partner through your usual channels, but you’d have less protection that way. If you were ever intercepted, you’d be on your own outside of the team working directly with you.” He waved his hand to indicate the Agents at the table. “I _can_ promise you that you would only work people of this caliber.”

She thought about that, glancing at Sitwell’s bright eyes as they watched her face, at Maria’s slightly muzzy look of vague, drunken interest. And then she looked across the narrow aisle to where Clint and Phil were pressed together, leaning against the edge of the table, hands still clasped tightly. Phil had turned his face toward Clint, watching his profile with an expression that could only be categorized as _hopeful._ Clint met Phil’s eyes seriously, a conversation in a glance, and then looked directly at Nat. He gently freed his fingers from Phil’s grip and raised his hands to sign.

 _We discuss later._ He glanced once at Phil and then back to Nat. _I have another choice tonight._

“Take your time,” Nick said, leaning back in his seat. His thigh shifted, and Nat refused to contemplate that the Director of SHIELD and the world’s top assassin had moved on to playing footsie under the table. Some things didn’t bear picturing.

“So I have just one question in all this.” Sitwell straightened where he sat, moving his arm to shuffle Maria more fully upright when she slipped down a bit and giggled. He patted her shoulder absently, looking past her head to Zeg. “Where did the plans come from? I know you didn’t have them after everything went boom at the warehouses. And there’s no _way_ you had them at the hospital. So when did you get them?”

Zeg smiled mysteriously, pale cheeks flushing pink with pleasure. They glanced at Nick and glanced away.

“You’ll be angry with us, Nicholas,” they said softly, not sounding in the least afraid of his anger. “It required a certain level of violence.”

“On your bum ankle.” Nick’s voice had gone flat. “Shortly after having surgery that you _might not have survived_ to remove a bullet from your body.”

 _Sorry_ , Zeg mouthed silently, still not actually looking the least bit apologetic. They settled themself into the seat with the air of a storyteller, fluffing the neon throw around their neck and shoulders and taking a delicate sip of wine.

Zeg and Jasper had both been released from the hospital the same day that the SHIELD cleanup crew had finished at the warehouse. Zeg had, of course, set a watch in SHIELD’s place-- and here they were interrupted by Phil, who commented that the watchers had been there all along. Zeg gave him a delighted smile and nodded.

“You _would_ have noticed that, Phillip.” They leaned far out into the aisle, reaching to pat his knee and then settled back into their seat with a sigh. “You do exceed expectations. Quite good enough for our Hawkeye, I think.”

Without giving anyone time to answer, Zeg described getting a call from their people at the site of the explosion and Basil driving them out. They wore their robes, armed with their cane and knives, but “Yes, Nick, we had backup armed with guns.” Ian Quinn himself, with only three men to assist him, sat in the dirt, digging through the rubble at the base of the office building. 

“So we did what we had to do. Mr. Quinn is now lacking the services of those gentlemen, who have been detained by the Dutch authorities.” Zeg rustled about, furry, brightly colored shawl slipping down a bit, and Nick caught it, settling it back in place and smoothing the tip of his finger across their cheek. “And Mr. Quinn will be in plaster far longer than we will be in our own.” They finished their last swallow of wine. “And at least we have one hand with which to write while we heal.”

The group began to make noises about leaving after that. Nick rose and offered his hand to assist Zeg, pretending it was affection that made him offer his arm instead of necessity. Zeg leaned against him, kissing his cheek and whispering something that made his lips curve in a warm smile.

“Agents, Mr. Barton, Ms. Romanov,” Nick said, nodding at each of them in turn.

“You _will_ think about your choices, yes, Natasha?” Zeg asked, their tone and expression a touch too bright, a bit too self-satisfied.

“It was all for show, wasn’t it.” Natasha slid out of the booth and stumbled backward as she was hit with a shock of realization. “You planned this whole thing to make me lower my guard. The two of you together, you thought you would win me over so easily!”

“It was _a_ show,” Nick answered slowly, watching her with shrewd eye. Zeg leaned more heavily into his side, holding him in place, and Nat found herself relaxing as she saw that Zeg, at least, was on her side. “Not planned, but you needed information. Just think on it. Call my office in a week--” he didn’t offer a card-- “and make an appointment to come see me. I think we’ll have a lot to talk about then.” He nodded curtly before turning to gently shunt Zeg toward the door, looping his arm around their skinny shoulders; their cast slithered under his coat to drape around the back of his waist.

Natasha watched them walk away and then turned back to the others. 

“You’re going home with him,” she said to Clint, tilting her head slightly in Phil’s direction. Clint nodded, face paling. 

“Yeah, he and I have…We need to talk about a few things. Just…”

 

“I know.” She brushed her fingertips along his cheek. “You go. Will you be home before morning?”

Clint glanced over his shoulder at Phil who shrugged gently. 

“I have the weekend off. Maybe we could…?” Phil shrugged again.

“I’ll let you know,” Clint turned back to Nat and kissed her gently on the cheek when she nodded at him.

“And _I_ am going to pour Mars into her own bed.” Sitwell dragged Maria to her feet. “You can, of course, come with us if you want, Romanov.”

“I have some thinking to do,” she answered, patting his shoulder as she breezed past. “I suspect we will all speak soon. Goodnight.”

The air was crisp, the wind promising cold fall nights shortly, as she turned to walk away from the bar. After only a short distance, she decided walking would not help her piece of mind and turned to hail a cab. At least, for this one night, she would have neither a mourning archer nor a wailing Irish woman to contend with. And that created _ideal_ conditions for a bath and long time to think. The cab would get her there faster, and the sooner she was home, the longer she had for a soak and a glass of wine.

____

 

“So this is your place.” Clint stood in the center of the living room, fingers wedged into the pockets of his obscenely tight jeans. 

Phil tried not to stare at the way his stance stretched the denim across that perfect ass, but realized that he’d been frozen in place for a solid forty-five seconds. He huffed at himself and turned around to lock the door and set his alarm. It took three tries to get the right code entered, with the tremble in his hands, and Phil hoped his ears weren’t as pink as they felt. _Finally bring a boy home and start fumbling around like a virgin_ , he thought, rolling his eyes at himself.

“It’s nice. Big. Clean.” Clint’s voice drew tight at the end of the last word.

Phil snorted as he turned, and the snort turned into a choke when he found Clint stretching, those glorious arms raised high over his head, muscles of his stomach and chest lengthening and rippling under faded jersey knit. He coughed himself into silence, and smiled sheepishly at Clint’s worried scowl.

“Easy to keep it clean when I’m never home to mess it up.” He leaned down to untie his shoes, ducking his head to hide his blush. After all the sex they’d had, in all the positions, after _marrying_ Clint, all it took to make him feel like a flustered teen was getting caught staring. “God, you’re beautiful.” He muttered the word, mouth blocked by his knee, feeling weirdly shy, uncertain. How could someone like him have _ever_ gotten the attention of a man like Clint?

“Hmm?” Clint stood over him, having crossed the floor with the silent grace that had stolen Phil’s breath in Amsterdam. “What?”

Phil raised both hands from his shoe, index and thumb together on each one, fingers spread wide as he shook them.

_Nothing._

Clint squinted suspiciously at him, then his face relaxed into a warm smile. He held his open hand up beneath his face and spun it quickly around, closing his fingers. Then again. And again, wrist cracking with the intensity of the gesture.

_Beautiful. Gorgeous. Gorgeous!_

Phil stood up slowly, lifting one fist and bobbing it up and down and then pointed.

_Yes. You._

“You have no idea, do you?” Clint reached out and cupped Phil’s jaw with both hands. “You have no idea what I see when I look at you.”

The directness of his stare caught Phil, trapping his gaze in Clint’s, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. He felt the blush heating his ears, his face, his neck and chest, body burning as he found himself at the center of Hawkeye’s famed intensity. Clint’s hands stayed gentle as he smoothed them over Phil’s cheeks, callouses catching lightly on Phil’s evening shadow. He leaned in further, brushing his lips along Phil’s eyelashes. 

“The first time I saw you, you were just some hot guy in a suit.” Clint dusted another kiss to Phil’s cheekbone. “A _very_ hot guy in a suit, but not someone I thought anything more about than going to my knees for you. Thought maybe blowing you would make up for using you.”

“I was using you, too, Clint.” Phil couldn’t figure out exactly when his hands had escaped his control and slithered underneath Clint’s t-shirt, but he decided he liked where they were and gave himself permission to start exploring. He smoothed his palms up Clint’s rippling abs, moving them higher until he could slip his fingers along Clint’s ribs. “I didn’t mean to use anyone, and I felt like shit when you turned out to be some gorgeous little Russian boy with a tragic past and a body that made me want.”

“And then you _weren’t_ just some hot guy in a suit.” Clint’s hands slid down Phil’s neck to his shoulders, scraping Phil’s jacket down and off. Phil didn’t even flinch when it crumpled to the floor. “You turned out to be _you_. Agent of SHIELD, certified badass, and an honest-to-God hero. But somehow, you still looked at me like I was worth something. Even when you figured out I’m not Anton, without all of Anton’s selling points. My past is pretty shitty, my present ain’t that great, and you still…”

Clint seemed to run out of words, and Phil couldn’t find anything important enough to break the silence. He edged closer to Clint, running his hands around the curve of Clint’s ribs to where they met at his spine, tightening his grip until he and Clint pressed chest to chest.

“‘M half-legit now.” The words came out soft, breathless, scared. Clint stared at the gap of Phil’s unbuttoned collar. “I don’t know if that’s enough. I’m not…It’s not...I’m not like some badass Man in Black or government agent. But I won’t be on any wanted lists, starting tomorrow. And I think I can stay off ‘em for good. Still not enough, but it’s--”

Phil cut him off by pressing their mouths together in a graceless kiss, and Clint made a sound-- half whimper, half groan-- that cracked and trailed away at the end. They broke apart, both laughing. 

“Yeah that was sexy,” Clint said, stepping away to rub at the back of his neck, and the blush that tinted the edges of his cheekbones soothed Phil’s jangled nerves. Facing the unknown became a less daunting prospect with Clint there, feeling the same uncertainty that Phil felt.

“It was,” Phil teased, catching Clint by one solid bicep and pulling him close again. “I’ve always been attracted by the death cries of stepped-on pigeons.”

“Jackass.” Clint’s eyes were full of warmth, but, underneath the affection, Phil could see his uncertainty in the tightness of his shoulders and the crease between his brows. 

“It’s enough. _You’re_ enough, Clint. You’re perfect.” Phil pulled Clint in close, rubbing their cheeks together as he stretched his arms around Clint’s broad shoulders. “My _god_ , look at you! You’ve lived through hell, and you’re still so damned determined to do things right. You’re just as gorgeous _inside_ as you are on the outside. Brilliant. Talented. Kind. Loyal. You’re an incredible lover, and I have never gotten enough of just _being_ with you. You’re amazing, and I still can’t believe you ever wanted me at all.”

“Always wanted you.” Clint’s voice was thick, and his eyes glimmered with a sheen of tears when he pulled back to look Phil in the eyes. He took a deep, shaky breath and bit his lip before continuing. “I hate this being away from each other shit. Hate being stuck with your ring and your name and nothing else. I don’t...I don’t think I can do it anymore. I can’t have reminders around while… I’m living in limbo, and I can’t function like this.”

Phil thought he died. The moment between Clint’s words and his own next heartbeat stretched to the breaking point, and then Phil found himself in the afterlife. He was _not_ surprised to find he’d ended up in Hell. 

“Okay,” he rasped, throat dry and eyes burning. “Okay. I...I understand. We can…You…I…” 

He tightened his arms around Clint. He’d thought...He’d been so damned _certain_ that, this time, with Clint in his house and his arms, that Clint was in his life to stay. But...If this wasn’t the life Clint wanted, if Clint needed his freedom and autonomy, Phil could give it to him. He took a deep breath to steady himself and forced himself to meet Clint’s eyes. _Wanting_ didn’t mean having; they’d both learned that lesson well in Amsterdam. Phil let himself stroke his fingertips down the bumps of Clint’s spine one more time, trying to hardwire the sense of Clint and close and intimacy into his system to remember when he... 

He dropped his arms and stepped back, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. He wouldn’t hurt Clint any more than he had to, hurt himself any more than he had to. And he _would not cry_ while he said the words that would let Clint move on, get rid of the strings trailing behind them both, tying them together while they had to be apart.

“I understand.” He cleared his throat. “I _do_ understand. It’s too hard to...And the way our lives are...You don’t have to...I’ll start the paperwork tomorrow. It’ll take a couple weeks, but just tell me where you can be served, and we’ll get it all undone and then you can...you can…”

Clint jerked and took a step back. “The _fuck_ are you saying, Phil? Why would…? If that’s...Can’t we…Phil?”

He backed across the room until he bumped into a side table, making the lamp on it wobble. Shadows danced around the room, and Phil thought of the pictures of demons and devils he’d seen in his mother’s books on Renaissance art. Odd that Hell still held Clint, standing across the room, looking beautiful and young and so very, very alive. An angel in a nightmare.

Clint edged around the table to sink down onto the couch, arms limp at his sides as he looked up at Phil with those wide puppy eyes. “I think you’re...That’s not...But _why_?”

“Isn’t that what--” Phil never got to finish the sentence.

“No! Fuck, no!” Clint scrubbed both hands over his face and through his hair, rumpling the blond spikes into a bizarre halo against the lamplight in front of him. “Okay, hold on. Just... Stop.”

He closed his eyes, pressing his thumb and finger against his eyes for a long second and then dropped his hand and looked up.

“ _Why_ would you ever think I’d want that?” Clint still wore the pleading eyes and his head tipped slightly to the side. Phil had a briefly irrational thought that no one _that_ muscular, _that_ handsome should be able to look so...cute.

“But you _said_ \--” Phil took a deep breath. “I think we should rewind this conversation. Start at the part where it sounded like you were saying you don’t want to be married anymore.”

“Phillip Coulson,” Clint rose slowly and stalked across the room. He caught Phil’s left hand in both of his own. “You are an _utter_ dumbass.” He leaned in and kissed Phil on the tip of his nose and shook his head slowly, only a hint of a smile showing at the corners of his mouth. “You are also _everything_ I have ever wanted.”

Phil’s heart stopped for the second time that night as Clint eased himself down to one knee, face turned up toward Phil’s, eyes positively shining as a real smile broke out across his face.

“You gorgeous, infuriating, self-sacrificing ass,” Clint began, pausing to kiss the back of Phil’s knuckles. “You are everything I have ever wanted in one perfect, sexy package...with a perfect _package_. So, instead of ignoring your feelings and divorcing me, what say you stay married to me, instead. Will you _please_ be my husband for real and forever?”

____

Jasper flopped onto Maria’s bed, letting the memory foam mold to his butt and spine, alcohol making his stomach warm and his limbs limp. Maria came out of the bathroom, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing nothing but a long-ish t-shirt (not long enough for Jasper’s sanity, but he pictured Fury in a tutu until the urge to ogle had passed) and a pair of black satin panties that showed as she bent down to find her phone charger. He added a feather boa and sequined eyepatch to Fury’s tutu in his mind, breathing shallowly until he got himself under control.

“Sooo glad you’re home.” Maria slid gracelessly under the covers, scootching to Jasper’s side and flinging her leg over the top of his thighs, settling her head against his shoulder. “My _God_ , Phil has been absolutely _impossible_ to deal with. Seriously, Jas. The _moping_ and the _pining_ and the wistful little sighs. And the Patsy Cline.”

She wiggled against him, and Jasper sighed happily, shifting until he could wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her halfway onto his chest. This was nice, curling up against a friend, comfortable and warm and in a familiar bed, even if it wasn’t his own. Not that he _actually_ spent that many nights in his own bed, between missions and how often he ended up with Mars and Phil in Phil’s much larger bed. Still, Jas finally started to feel like he was _home_.

“Do you think they’re going to work things out tonight?” Maria suddenly sounded far less drunk as she rolled onto her back and frowned up at the ceiling. “It’s just, if Clint leaves him this time, Phil’s going to crack. Again.”

“Those fuckers,” Jasper snapped. “They seemed to have things working fine between them when they trapped me in the goddamned bathroom.”

“Not that. I mean, really, the sex always seemed to work just fine. At least from what I saw that first morning in Phil’s hotel room. And from the sounds that came out of the bathroom every night. Yeesh.” Maria sat up, folding her legs together and leaning over to drape her torso over Jas’s stomach, chin digging into his ribs. “I just never believed in that whole ‘love at first sight’ bullshit or whatever. I thought Phil was just tangled over finally getting some on the regular. But he’s seemed half-dead after we came back. And then tonight he looked so, I don’t know, peaceful or something.”

“ _Peaceful_!” Jas snorted, thinking of the hungry look he’d seen on Phil’s face as Clint had dropped to his knees in front of him, the growling and swearing and panting that he hadn’t been entirely able to drown out. “That’s not the word I’d use for how he looked.” 

Maria sat up and slapped him on the thigh, with a reproving glare. “I mean when they were out with all of us, leaning into each other, holding hands, whispering and giggling at each other like high school sweethearts. It was kinda gross, but he looked so _content_. God knows, I’d never have expected to see _Phil_ like that. It just seems like it’s... not something that actually happens in real life, ya know?”

“So… you don’t believe in love at all?” Jasper tried to ignore the sudden clench in his guts at that thought. 

“I never said that. I believe in a lot of things.” Maria chewed on one fingernail, staring out the window at the brick wall of the neighboring building. “I believe in loyalty. Friendship. Teamwork. Family. SHIELD.” She blinked back into the room. “And this isn’t the beer talking, although it’s the beer loosening my tongue, I think, but I believe in you.”

Jasper looked up at her, trying to read her blank face in the dim light of the bedside lamp. A high, fine blush on her sharp cheekbones marred her usual dispassionate blankness, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth as he studied her expression. Having never _seen_ such a look on Maria’s face before, he had no idea how to interpret what he saw.

“Natasha referred to you as my boyfriend tonight,” Mars said. She licked her lips and took a quickly took a deep breath. “I immediately knew who she meant, and I didn’t feel the need to correct her. Maybe we should find out if that means something.”

He waited watching her watch him intently.

“So...Was that a come-on?” He finally asked, half-hopeful and half just confused.

“Yeah, I think so.” Maria nodded. “I mean, you’re _you_ , and I trust you. And we’ve both utterly failed at dating anyone else. But we have always worked well together. Maybe we’d work well together when we’re not at work. So. Whatcha think?”

What _did_ Jasper think? Mostly, he thought he’d fallen asleep and was having the weirdest dream of his life. But one tiny part of him hoped it was real. The rest of him was quivering in fear of reading the whole thing wrong and ending up with a knife in his back. Or, worse still, starting something, screwing it all up, and losing both a lover and a best friend.

“Can I sleep on it and tell you in the morning?” It was the safest answer he could find in the limited time he had to answer before the whole thing got awkward. “You’re drunk and I’m tipsy, and you’re my best friend, Mars. I don’t wanna make a mistake here.”

Maria sighed happily, smiling, and twisting around to turn out the lamp on her nightstand. “You always make really good plans, Jas. Phil’s better at fixing things when they all go to hell, but _you_ make the best plans.”

Jasper turned on his side to wrap his arms around Mars, pulling her close enough to snuggle against, lightness bubbling up in his chest. He wasn’t sure what would happen in the morning, but at least there was some hope that his sudden attack of _feelings_ wouldn’t fuck everything up. And, who knew? With a little bit of careful planning, maybe he could get a little revenge for the unexpected exposure to Coulson O-Face.

He’d have to ask Mars how she felt about office sex.

____

Nat leaned back in the tub, stretching her legs out to rest her crossed ankles on the nose of the faucet. The bathroom looked better by the light of the candles that rested along the edge of the counter. Shadows danced on the walls, hiding the speckles on the glass, the stains on the grout and the cracks in the peeling wallpaper. Nat heaved a sigh and sank down until the hot water lapped at her shoulders. Now that she had a guaranteed paycheck, perhaps it was time to unstash some of her money and move herself into a better apartment. She reached over the side of the tub to collect the wine glass from the floor, not needing to look to remember where she’d set it.

Then again, maybe the money _wasn’t_ guaranteed, not if Zeg was retiring. Not that Nat had believed them. She pictured the smirk Zeg had worn during that part of the earlier conversation. No, she didn’t believe them at all.

So now the only real obstacle to moving into a nicer place would be convincing Clint. He had become inordinately fond of his rat hole of an apartment, it being the first home he’d ever had in his own name. Then again, maybe she didn’t have to worry about him _quite_ so much. She thought of the way he’d linked his fingers into Phil’s, the way Phil had held onto Clint as they’d left, looking at him as if he were the most precious thing. That was not the look of a man who intended to let go any time soon. 

Nat had every faith in Phil’s ability to convince Clint to stay, between the offer of ready sex and lasting affection. Clint _having_ Phil would mean no more Sinead. It would _also_ mean no more shared beds, but she’d slept alone for many years. She would miss the daily rhythm of their partnership, but she had always known that Clint’s childlike heart would fall in love again someday. At least Phil understood him and understood the attachment shared with Natasha and would not try to come between them.

Most likely. 

_Hopefully._

However, if Clint went to Phil, Clint would go to SHIELD; therein lay Natasha’s need for a soak in the tub and wine and candlelight. 

Decision time.

The Director of SHIELD himself had promised that she could work for them without being a _part_ of the organization, that she could do real _good_ in the world at their side, and still refuse to join with SHIELD for its shadier activities. That her employment with them could be conditional, and those conditions were _hers_ to decide. He’d also assured her that she could terminate her employment without being, er, terminated. Hill had gone so far as to promise to offer names of former assets who no longer were part of the organization: Nat planned to take her up on that.

Plus, if she allowed herself to be _hired_ \-- not collected, not assimilated-- she would be allowed to work with Clint and Phil, and even Sitwell and Maria. _And_ she could probably continue working for Waarzegster on the side, provided they stayed on the good side of Nick Fury. That, given the cow’s eye look Nick had aimed at Zeg all evening, getting positively sappy by the end of Zeg’s narrative of badassery, would _not_ be at issue.

Nat finished her wine and set the glass gently on the back corner of the tub. First leg shaving and hair washing, and then a fluffy robe and a phone call to Clint. He needed to know her decision so that he could get on with making his own.

The sooner that happened, the less off-key singing they would _all_ be forced to endure.

____

“Basil was pleased to hear that Clinton and Phillip left together.” Zeg pressed the button to lock their phone and placed it on the nightstand. “And he sends his thanks for his newfound anonymity.”

Nick blinked his good eye open, not removing his face from where it pressed tightly against Zeg’s pale hip. 

“And we thank you, too.” Zeg wiggled, not that there was room to get closer, but they’d waited so long for this moment, and they were going to milk every ounce of enjoyment out of it. Over twenty years of nightly phone calls, and yet it still felt familiar and comfortable to be naked and sharing a bed.

“I haven’t said I would do that yet.” The corner of his lips twitched, but he didn’t actually smile.

“Please.” Zeg shook back their hair and stretched their arms high over their head, arching a kink out of their spine as they stretched. They relaxed back against the thick pillows and dropped their cast gently to Nick’s muscular shoulder, fingers awkwardly tracing an absent pattern over one scar. “As if you would deny us anything.” They smiled down affectionately and smoothed their uninjured palm across Nick’s forearm where it lay across their thighs, fingers tracing the ropey muscles. “Besides, we have delivered on our offer.”

“You can’t know that for sure.” Nick kissed the thin skin against his lips, whiskers just brushing the healing scar from where Quinn’s bullet had been removed from their pelvis, and Zeg shivered and felt goosebumps tingle across their stomach and legs. He smiled and sat up, kissing their lips. “No one’s signed anything yet.”

“The _restroom_ , Nicholas.” Zeg pushed him away with a haughty sniff, spine stiff with mock hauteur. “Your stuffed-shirt of a Coulson could not wait to get the man home before he debauched him in the _restroom_. And neither of them bothered to clear the room before they did! Love, those are both men who scan for hidden dangers when they walk into their _own_ bathrooms.”

“They fucked-- a _lot_ \-- during a mission and still walked away.” Nick curled into Zeg’s chest as they spread their arms out in invitation, and Zeg kissed his smooth scalp, cuddling him close. “Might just be that they have some kind of hormone imbalance around each other.”

Zeg sniffed disdainfully. “That was goodbye. _This_ was hello. Trust us, darling. You have two new assets.”

“You really think the Widow’ll come in, too?” Nick shifted carefully until he could lip at Zeg’s nipple, punching the breath from their lungs, derailing the snarky comeback they’d planned. They arched, arms reaching up until their good hand gripped the headboard, fingers of the broken wrist just brushing the carved wood. “Because I’m still not sure we convinced her we’re safe.”

“She’ll risk it for Clint.” Zeg managed to suck in enough air to answer. “You’ll see.”

Nick slid down further to trace Zeg’s navel with his tongue, and they arched toward his mouth, revelling in the unheard of luxury of being touched intimately by Nicholas twice in a single day. Their hand tightened on the headboard as they writhed under the enticing assault of his lips and tongue and teeth, murmuring soft encouragements in English and Dutch and French. 

“You’re so beautiful, baby.” He whispered the words into their skin, just on the edge of their hearing. “Let’s be done talking about work now.”

“Will you join our pleasure tonight, love?” Zeg closed their eyes as Nick moved lower still to set his teeth against the point of their undamaged hip.

“Dunno, baby. We’ll see if I get there.” He tenderly kissed the pink bruise his bite had left. “Don’t hold yourself back waiting on me, though. All I need is to see you enjoying yourself.”

____

Clint quit breathing while he waited for Phil to answer. His knee started to ache a bit, and he mentally berated himself for landing on the one he’d dislocated two years before in Johannesburg, but it seemed rude to start shuffling around right then. He bit the inside of his cheek and tried to settle the hammering of his heart, tried sinking into the place in his head he went while waiting on a target. He was mostly unsuccessful, staring up at Phil’s shocked face, the wide blue eyes wearing an expression he’d never seen in them before. 

“Uhh, Phil?” Time to nudge things along.

“Yes.” Phil’s mouth went from slack with shock to firm and decisive. “Yes, that’s…”

His fingers tightened around Clint’s, and his other hand reached down to get a firm grip on Clint’s wrist. His shoulders surged, and Clint found himself on his feet with Phil’s mouth sealed against his own. 

_Okay, then._ Clint supposed that answered that. He let himself slide into the kiss, slipping his arms around Phil’s waist, fingers of one hand clutching possessively at the back of Phil’s belt, still half-afraid that he’d slip away just on the verge of everything _finally_ working out in Clint’s favor. He pulled out of the kiss-- not far, staying close enough their noses brushed and Phil’s breath brushed across Clint’s slick lips-- and looked deeply into Phil’s eyes. 

“So that is yes to staying married, yeah?” Clint raised an eyebrow as he asked, quirking the corner of his mouth into an awkward attempt at a smile. 

“Sorry, yes. Of course, yes.” Phil closed his eyes and tilted his forehead against Clint’s. “Just took a minute to process that this is _real_. I don’t know...We’ll have some things to figure out about work. How we’re going to keep our jobs and our relationship from turning into a conflict of interest. But, if I ever have to choose, SHIELD can go fuck itself.”

Clint couldn’t contain his flinch. “Now that I’ve met your boss, I find that mental image _really_ disturbing. I may never forgive you for that.”

Phil laughed and kissed Clint, warm and chaste, and then laughed again and pulled away, catching Clint’s hand and pulling him along behind. Clint let himself be led back to the couch, pressed down into the cushions and kissed again. 

“Drink to toast our marriage?” Phil asked; he straightened out of the kiss, patting Clint’s shoulder. “I think I could use one after that scare when I thought…” He trailed off and smiled sheepishly before walking around the sofa and heading to the kitchen.

A quick discussion called back and forth between the Phil in front of the liquor cabinet and then, a moment later, the fridge and Clint in the livingroom yielded two beers. Clint knew _his_ reason for the request was not wanting to get sloppy drunk and not be able to perform later. When Phil came in a moment later with two dark bottles in his hand and a hungry look in his eyes, Clint assumed his reasoning was much the same.

They clinked the necks of their bottles together, drank deeply, and turned into a kiss, Phil’s arm stretching over the back of Clint’s shoulders, tucking their bodies together. 

“So what happened here?” Clint brushed his thumb lightly over the swelling around Phil’s right eye. 

Unexpectedly, Phil’s entire face went red. He looked away and took another swallow of his beer before mumbling, “Marshitmeinthefacewithadoor.”

Clint made him repeat himself more slowly, unable to separate the words through his hearing aids and unable to see Phil’s mouth enough to read his lips. Even after Phil answered a third time, signing as he spoke, Clint wasn’t quite certain what to think of the answer.

“Hill?” Clint turned slightly sideways. “Is this some kind of regular occurrence around SHIELD, because, I gotta tell you, I get hit enough by people on the other side. I’m not sure I’d be willing to work with you if--”

“No! God, no!” Phil set his bottle on the coffee table and tucked his knee up, turning to fully face Clint. He took one of Clint’s hands, weaving their fingers together. “SHIELD frowns on all kinds of friendly fire. Mars is just incredibly clumsy before she’s had at least a pot of coffee. If you’re ever sent on a mission with her, make sure the room has a coffeemaker, and you should be fine.”

Clint laughed softly and leaned forward to kiss Phil’s lips, simply because they were there, and Phil was his, and that was allowed.

“So…What happens next?” He asked when he finally leaned back, gratified at the way Phil leaned forward slightly as if chasing Clint’s mouth.

“That depends on you, I guess.” Phil said, scooting closer until his knee overlapped Clint’s thigh. “On what you want to do. I mean, I’d like it if you moved in here. Or we could get a different place. Something we’ve picked out together, if that’d make it more yours.” He chewed on his bottom lip a moment before continuing. “I mean, you’ve said your place is pretty small. But, if you’re not ready to live together yet, we could--”

 

“I don’t… I’m going to have to talk to Nat before I make some of those decisions.” Clint sighed and leaned back into the arm of the couch, holding out his arms until Phil unfolded and draped himself on top of Clint, head pillowed on Clint’s shoulder. “I want us together though, as much as we can be. I want to be _with_ you.”

Phil hummed in agreement, and Clint stroked his hand down the now-wrinkled cotton of Phil’s shirt. He did it again, and then moved up to run his fingers through Phil’s thinning hair, smiling as the hairspray Phil used flaked out and the strands became softer under his touch. Tension bled out of Phil’s body until he was heavy and limp across Clint, and Clint closed his eyes and tipped his head back.

The last time they’d been able to just _touch_ and _hold_ without desperation had been that chilly night at Zeg’s house, when they’d gone to the courtyard and watched the stars. Clint had opened up about his past, and Phil had returned the favor. Looking back, Clint knew that was the night that he had fallen in love, helplessly and forever. He lifted his head to kiss Phil’s temple.

“So, if I _do_ come into SHIELD, what happens?” 

Phil pushed himself further up until he could see Clint’s face. “Well, you’d have to go to training, one of the Academies. There are a few options, but basically, you’d have a shortened course. You don’t need training on how to do the job, just the SHIELD procedures. You’re not the first merc we’d have brought in, and you’re probably the most highly skilled. If you didn’t sign on, but hired on as a consultant or specialist asset, there would be a training course at one of the larger SHIELD bases, maybe here in New York. Maybe one of the others. Again, just SHIELD procedures and an assessment so that we would best know how to utilize your skills.”

Clint relaxed back into the couch and let Phil’s voice wash over him. He interrupted the flow of words with kisses occasionally, and Phil smiled each time, eyes crinkling at the corners. Eventually, the kisses became longer and the narration of SHIELD hiring practices broke apart further. Clint found himself pressed flat down against the couch, Phil blanketing his body, lying between his thighs, both of them moving together, breathing becoming harsher.

In the middle of the next kiss, Phil pulled away to yawn, and Clint felt betrayed as he involuntarily followed suit, his own jaw cracking with the force of it.

“I have a really big bed,” Phil said, chuckling gently. “Very comfortable. If we move this in there, we can take our time and not have to get back up afterward. If...If you’d--”

 

“Oh yes,” Clint interrupted. “I’d like very much.”

Phil climbed off the couch, taking a minute to stretch, pulling the hem of his shirt out of his slacks on one side. Clint sat up quickly to push the shirt up further, laying his palm against the warm, freckled skin beneath. 

“God, babe,” he breathed as Phil stepped closer, letting Clint pull his shirt entirely free to get both hands on Phil’s skin. “A month was too damn long to go without this. Without you. Let’s not do that again, if we can help it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Phil said, and he caught Clint’s arms and heaved him to his feet. “Yeah, let’s not.”

He kissed Clint again and then led him down the hall toward the bedroom, giving the ten cent tour on the way past the half-bath and guest room as they went.

____

 

It should have been strange, undressing slowly with Clint. Sharing space and sharing lazy kisses, a methodical progression toward nudity and bed and sex and sleep. It felt so _domestic_ together, so right and calm and perfect. Phil had never brought a lover home to that apartment, and he’d certainly never imagined that he would have someone sharing his space permanently. He’d never _really_ hoped for it.

And yet, he stood in the center of his room, sharing space and air and the simple intimacy of preparing for bed with a husband. With _Phil’s_ husband. With Clint. His entire life had shifted in a single question, and the tidal wave had been enough to freeze Phil, freeze his tongue, until all he’d been able to do was stare at Clint and hope that he wasn’t about to wake up in tears. Again.

They both took their time peeling off clothing, the desperation and hunger that had marked their frantic exploits in The Netherlands already gone. For the first time, Phil could have Clint, touch him, _make love_ to him without the pain of future loss clouding the moment. Phil slid his hands under Clint’s t-shirt, pushing it up and off and leaning in to trace the bruise he’d left earlier, during their frantic fumble at the bar, with his lips. He moved up the column of Clint’s neck, kissed along Clint’s jaw, and then sank into Clint’s embrace as their mouths met in a gentle, searching kiss. 

“Give me just a minute, yeah?” Phil reluctantly pulled himself away from Clint’s kisses and touch. 

Clint’s brow furrowed, eyes clouding with uncertainty, and Phil hurried to reassure him.

“Just wanna brush my teeth. Once I’m in that bed with you, I don’t plan on getting out until at _least_ morning.”

Clint answered with a bright smile and a quick kiss. “I like that plan. Don’t think it needs any changes. Simple and solid. No way to screw it up.”

Phil paused on his way into the bathroom, dropping his slacks and shirt into the hamper on the way past, peeling off his socks as well. Clint whistled softly at him, and Phil turned to scowl playfully at him.

“It’s my ankles that do it for you?” He asked, raising an eyebrow in faux surprise. “Or maybe it’s my toes.”

“Yes.” Clint nodded vigorously. “Exactly. All of that. _Any_ of that. Just get _naked_!” Clint reached down and unfastened his pants both as demonstration and encouragement. 

With a smirk, Phil grabbed the bottom hem of his undershirt, sweeping it up and off in a single move. Still smirking, he shimmied his hips, twirled the ribbed knit over his head, and flung it across the room to land in Clint’s lap. He peeled his boxers down and off and dumped them in the hamper, too.

“If I had any cash on me, it’d be all yours. Don’t know where I’d stick it, of course, now that you’re naked.” Clint picked up the shirt and sniffed it dramatically. “Ahhh! Fresh Phil! No finer vintage!”

“You, Clint Barton, are a giant dork.” Phil felt his chest tighten and belly warm at the thought that this man was _his_ dork. “I never would have guessed it on first meeting.”

Clint laughed and winked at him before shoving his own jeans down his thighs.

Phil bit his lip and hurried to the bathroom before he embarrassed himself with sappy declarations (one proposal a night seemed more than ample) or lost himself in ogling. He hurried to get through his nightly routine: removing contacts, washing his face, brushing his teeth, taking time to pee and wash his hands before heading back to his husband. Even thinking the word made him giddy. 

Back in the bedroom, he found Clint sprawled, naked, across the bed, flipping idly through the pages of the book Phil had been reading before his trip to Amsterdam.

"There are spare toothbrushes under the sink." Phil crossed the room to sit beside Clint’s shoulder, reaching out to trace the line of a scar he’d traced over and over with tongue-- _before_. "Mine's blue, Mars has red, and Jasper got stuck with orange, so pick your own color and try to remember so you don’t get them confused later."

The book thumped to the floor as Clint surged up, mouth hungry and searching as he dragged Phil close to kiss, a fine tremor running through his body. Phil didn’t know what about the offer of a toothbrush had brought on that kind of reaction, but he accepted the kiss and returned it, licking the edge of Clint’s teeth. He lifted his hand, pressing into the new-growth hair on Clint’s chest, marveling at how it could feel both silky and sharp at once. And then something else filtered through the haze of _Clint_ and _yes_ and _love_.

Clint’s chest, aside from the beautiful new coat of fur, was bare. 

Phil broke the kiss and leaned back to look, and, sure enough, no ring dangled from his neck. Instead, he saw the wide silver band on Clint’s finger as Clint carefully pushed himself up and climbed off the side of the bed. As soon as he’d disappeared into the bathroom, Phil scrambled for his pants, fishing out the carabiner with its precious cargo, slipping the arrow-etched ring off the clasp and onto his left hand. 

He scurried around to grab his change dish off the dresser and climbed back into his bed, leaning out to set the bowl on the far nightstand for Clint’s ears. Before settling in, he smoothed the covers and fluffing the pillows, waiting for Clint to return.

____

Clint came out of the bathroom to find Phil waiting for him in bed. In Phil’s bed. Maybe _their_ bed. Looking at him sitting there, sheet draped over his hips, thick-framed glasses perched on his crooked nose, smiling at Clint and looking so happy and warm and sleepy, Clint quit even _trying_ to lie to himself. That was _his_ man in _their_ bed, and he was never going to be able to leave again. 

Rather than going around to the open side, Clint simply lifted the sheet and slid onto Phil’s lap, straddling him as he pressed Phil back on the pillows and kissed him deeply.

“I really need you to fuck me, babe,” Clint growled, biting at Phil’s earlobe. “But Imma take my ears out first, so you’re gonna have to be loud if you want me to hear you. Mind if we leave the lights on so I can see your lips and hands?”

In answer, Phil simply removed his glasses and reached out to put them on the nightstand closest to him. He gestured at the opposite side of the bed where Clint’s phone was plugged into a charger and a small dish sat waiting to hold Clint’s hearing aids. Clint’s throat tightened, and he swallowed hard around the lump. So fucking thoughtful, his husband. Pretty damned perfect.

He dropped his hearing aids and rolled back to Phil, reaching out with arms and legs to pull Phil close. 

“Not sure how athletic I can get tonight,” he said, hoping he wasn’t shouting into Phil’s face. “Haven’t slept well since...since Amsterdam.”

Phil nodded and smiled softly, kissing him before scooting away and gently reaching for Clint’s shoulder. Clint let himself be rolled onto his stomach, sighing with contentment as Phil straddled his hips and dug his soft, strong hands into the knots that comprised most of the muscle of Clint’s shoulders. Clint looped one arm under his head and reached back to pat Phi’s thigh with the other. He lost himself in the touch of Phil’s hands, groaning as kinks that had been building in his neck and back for _years_ began to let go. Phil slid down Clint’s thighs, working his hands lower as he went, until he sat on Clint’s calves, hands kneading deeply into the muscles of Clint’s ass.

“Fee’so good,” Clint slurred with a growing suspicion that he was drooling on himself. He tried to move to wipe his mouth, but he felt like his bones had turned to gel. Arms not going anywhere: check.

And then Phil, devious, sneaky, wicked, _amazing_ Phil, leaned forward as his hands spread Clint’s cheeks apart, pressed a kiss to the tip of Clint’s tailbone, and then licked. Clint’s eyes nearly rolled up at the sensation, and he groaned, lower back tightening as he tried to arch to Phil’s mouth. Clint could feel the way Phil’s chest shook as he chuckled, and then Clint felt Phil stretch out down the bed, pinning Clint’s legs with his body as he leaned back in, pressed his mouth to Clint’s ass and got to work.

It felt as if hours passed while Phil licked and sucked, working his tongue against Clint’s body. Phil pushed one hand between Clint’s thighs, resting his hand on the bed in just the right place. The hot curve of his palm gave Clint something firmer than memory foam to rub against, and Clint moaned and humped and shivered. He tried to tell Phil how _good_ it was, how incredible Phil made him feel, how loved and cherished and wanted. Later, Clint would be grateful that he didn’t actually make much sense, as sappy romantic declarations made him feel ridiculous. Right at that moment, all he felt was frustration that he couldn’t tell Phil how _amazing_ he was.

____

Phil couldn’t tell Clint how beautiful he looked, spread out like a feast set entirely for Phil’s pleasure, draped across Phil’s mattress; his mouth was far too busy. He gripped hard on the jut of Clint’s hips with both hands, pulling until Clint knelt for him, arms and neck still limp against the bed with that magnificent ass spread up and open and wet and waiting for Phil to get back to work. 

He spent only a moment admiring the view, the muscles of Clint’s back and thighs trembling and flexing under a sheen of sweat. Clint whined, loud and sharp, pleading, face rubbing restlessly against the sheet. Phil leaned in and stroked his tongue in broad, flat licks until the shivering relaxed, and Clint’s shoulders sank into the mattress, his hips undulating softly to press himself against Phil’s mouth. Phil pressed his tongue harder, easing it inside Clint’s body, feeling Clint beginning to quiver around his tongue until the tremors spread to his thighs, shaking them against Phil’s arms. Clint cried out again, wordless in bliss, loud without his ears on, and the desperation of the sound dragged an answering moan out of Phil. Sweat beaded on Clint’s skin, slicking Phil’s cheeks, making his fingers slide across Clint’s ass. Phil dug his nails in, trying to maintain his grip.

For a long time, Phil lost himself in eating Clint out, his hands restlessly touching Clint’s thighs and sides, reaching under to cup Clint’s balls and rubbing his fingers along Clint’s perineum firmly. The half-words that spilled from Clint’s lips made Phil want to lick deeper, grip harder, mark and bite and claim, but at the same time, he felt as if he could take his time, enjoy himself and enjoy Clint. Finally, instead of being their _last_ time, or their _only_ time, this was just _a_ time to be together. To make love and sleep tangled together, to wake in the morning and know they would do it again. Soon.

Phil pulled away with one last kiss to Clint’s left buttock. Clint melted down onto the bed under him, smiling loopily with his eyes closed as Phil crawled over him to reach for the drawer of his nightstand, pulling out a bottle of lube. He dug around for a moment before growling in frustration and climbing off the bed to find the wallet that he’d left in his slacks, accidentally having thrown it all in the hamper.

“Where you going?” Clint asked groggily, lifting his head and squinting at Phil.

Pulling two foil packets out of the wallet before dropping it back on the floor, Phil carried them over to the bed, holding them up for Clint to see, and Clint’s face relaxed into a smile.

“Good,” Clint grunted, spreading his legs wider and curling both arms under his head. “Get in me.”

Phil leaned down until Clint could see his mouth and said firmly, exaggerating the shape of the words, “Not yet.”

____

Clint whimpered and wiggled as Phil climbed back onto the bed and settled himself between Clint’s thighs. He wasn’t in a hurry, exactly, but Phil had him so worked up that he had begun to lose track of time. Plus, as good as it have to Phil down there, doing what he’d been doing-- and what he began doing again, _holy fuck_ \-- Clint couldn’t hold him that way. Couldn’t see his face. Couldn’t stare into Phil’s eyes and…

He lost his train of thought as Phil’s fingers pressed into him, slick and hot and firm and so, so good. Phil’s tongue went back to work shortly after, and Clint tossed his head, gripping at the sheets to find something solid in the storm of sensations radiating up from his ass. It was both torture and relief when Phil shifted, leaving his fingers buried deep, moving up the bed to drape himself halfway across Clint. He kissed Clint’s spine on the way up, each peak of vertebrae, the knob at the base of Clint’s neck, the dip just below his skull, and then sank down, hand never changing the slow rhythm of fucking into Clint, over and over again.

“I wonder if I could make you come like that,” Phil said against Clint’s ear, sending shivers down Clint’s spine that made him clench around the fingers in his ass. “On nothing but my fingers and my mouth. Could you? Should I try?”

“Not tonight, babe,” Clint gasped, turning his face toward Phil and searching for Phil’s lips. He needed to kiss and be kissed, _right the fuck then._ Phil shifted with Clint as he rolled, curling Clint’s spine into a curve he’d never have managed without his years in the circus, drawing Clint’s leg over his side. “I need you too badly. Need my arms around you. Need to kiss you.”

He suited action to words, and Phil’s fingers slipped out as he tightened his arms around Clint, pulling him closer still. Clint gasped and whined, rolling further to push Phil onto his back and climbing over him. Phil looked up at him, wide-eyed and panting, pupils large and black and desperate. His mouth was swollen and red, still spit-slick from rimming Clint into incoherence, and Clint leaned down to press a kiss to it.

“Can I, babe?” Clint asked, rubbing his hips backward to grind his ass into Phil’s groin. “Like this? Can we?” 

Phil would never be able to deny Clint anything he asked for. The discovery startled him, shook the very foundations of his belief about himself, but looking up at Clint, tawny-gold in the lamplight, swaying like the physical manifestation of music, Phil knew it to be true. Phil Coulson was no longer defined only as an Agent of SHIELD. He would never again be _just Phil_. Now, and from that moment forward, he would be Clint’s Phil. Clint’s husband. 

He blinked once, slowly, and nodded his head. He didn’t know what his face showed, but he saw the recognition dawn in Clint’s eyes, watched happiness spread across Clint’s face. Clint swooped down on him, mouth opening as it covered Phil’s, tongue pressing in possessively, delving deep. Phil moaned under him, hands scrabbling for a grip on the broad, muscular plain of Clint’s back.

After drowning in kisses until he had to gasp for air as he pulled away, Clint leaned back to search for a condom packet on the bed. He bent down as he opened it, licking a hot stripe up the side of Phil’s erection, and Phil’s hips bucked without his permission, seeking more contact with Clint’s talented, wet, inviting mouth.

“Just give me a minute,” Clint said, laughter in his voice, and Phil looked down to find Clint speaking to his crotch. Clint leaned down to kiss Phil’s tip. “I’ve got something very nice for you.”

Phil laughed, choking on it as Clint’s hands wrapped around him, rolling down the latex and slicking on a handful of lube. He squirmed when Clint jacked him firmly several times, and then lost his breath again when Clint surged up to kiss him, hard and dirty, before he sat up quickly and sank down onto Phil in one quick, sharp, agonizingly perfect slide. 

____

Clint flung his head back to breathe hard for a moment when his hips landed on Phil’s. He’d somehow managed to forget just how _big_ Phil was, how tight of a fit. By the end of their month together, Clint had needed nothing but a thin layer of lube and Phil, but now he felt grateful for every second he’d had the sweet torture of Phil’s tongue and fingers easing him open. He inhaled sharply through his nose, exhaled through his mouth, and wiggled his hips, settling Phil deeper and getting used to the stretch. Beneath him, Phil tried to buck, pinned in place by Clint’s full weight resting on his pelvis.

“None of that, babe,” Clint said, tipping his head forward and pressing his palms to Phil’s chest. He swirled his fingers through the soft curls, smiling at the streaks and whorls left by the lube that still slicked his hands. “You made me take it _forever_. Now it’s my turn to play.”

Clint watched Phil’s head thrash on the pillow, his mouth falling open, and he could feel the rumble of Phil’s groan vibrating the heaving ribs under his hands. He rolled his hips, lifted himself with a flex of his thighs, and slammed back down, clenching as tightly as he could. Phil arched away from the bed, hands spasming against the sheets before flailing to find Clint’s knees and grip _hard_. Clint repeated his shimmy-lift-drop, and again, hunting for a pace he knew he could maintain for a while. 

Phil’s lips moved, shaping words Clint couldn’t hear, couldn’t read through the slur of Phil’s pleasure. His fingers squeezed tightly enough to leave bruises, and Clint knew he’d love looking at them over the next several days, thrilling at the reminder of how desperate he could make Phil, how out of control.

With the next shift of Clint’s hips, Phil planted his feet and thrust up to meet the downward movement, and Clint’s eyes fell shut on their own as a shout scraped out of his throat.

“YES!” Clint’s hands clenched in Phil’s chest hair, tugging hard enough to get an answering shout from Phil, loud enough that even Clint could hear it. “Ohhh, fuck yes! Do that again!’

Phil complied, face setting into a rictus of determination as he slid his hands up Clint’s thighs until he could grip hard at Clint’s hips and help guide the motion. Clint reached down to wrap one hand around himself, setting a punishing pace as he raced toward orgasm. He clenched harder around Phil as he rocked against him, trying to drag Phil over the edge with him.

Clint’s eyes stayed shut as he rocked above Phil, and Phil wanted to drag him down, wrap his arms around Clint’s perfect shoulders, kiss his sweat-sparkled throat. Instead, he bit his own lip, trying to hold on as Clint spasmed around him, going impossibly tight as he gasped. Phil felt the hot, wet stripes of Clint’s release streaking across his stomach and shouted again, nearly losing himself as Clint came over him, around him. He tasted blood and realized he’d bitten through his own lip as he fought for control.

The instant Clint showed signs of going boneless with the end of his orgasm, Phil moved. He looped an arm around Clint’s waist, twisted his legs, and slammed Clint down to the mattress, hoisting one of Clint’s thighs around his waist as he went. Clint shouted again, eyes still closed, and then he went boneless under Phil, arms spread wide across the bed, head flung back, exposing his neck, his chest, making himself open and vulnerable to Phil’s mouth.

Phil sank his teeth into the curve where Clint’s neck joined his shoulder, two inches from the mark he’d left earlier that night. He wrapped one arm tight around Clint’s slim waist and the other beneath Clint’s broad shoulder and gave himself over to chasing his own release. Half a dozen thrusts later, he shouted as the flash of heat and pleasure overtook him and he spilled into the condom, buried deep inside Clint’s hot, welcoming body.

____

Clint stayed limp against the bed except for one arm that he forced himself to raise, flopping it around Phil’s waist. They’d both have to move eventually, but for the time being, he allowed himself to bask in the certain knowledge that no one was going to burst in on them, that there was no planning that needed their immediate attention, that there were no friends or sisters waiting on either of them a few rooms away. He sighed happily and kissed the damp hair at Phil’s temple. 

“You gonna move anytime soon?” Clint asked as his leg, limp and out of his control, slid down Phil’s sweat-damped ass to land on the bed with a thump. 

Phil grunted, slowly prising one of his arms out from under Clint’s body to reach down and catch the condom as he withdrew. As soon as he was free, he dropped slightly to one side, ending half still on top of Clint and half on the bed. He nosed in against Clint’s neck, pressed a kiss to one of the sensitive places he’d mapped out two months before, and sighed as he settled in. 

“We’re going to be stuck together by morning.” Clint raised the arm not pinned by a snoozing Phil and ran a fingertip down the tackiness on his own belly. “Cemented, most likely.” 

Phil gave a huff that might have been acceptance or annoyance and hitched his leg higher across Clint’s thighs. And, okay then. If Phil didn’t mind sticking, Clint wouldn't mind sticking. He closed his eyes, turned his head to kiss Phil’s hair again and settled in to sleep. Several minutes later, he shivered at the feeling of a wet wipe stroking down his chest and stomach, and then his eyelids grew darker as the lamp clicked off. He felt Phil manhandle him onto his side and curl against his back, and then he was gone to sleep, held and sated, warm, and happier than he’d ever felt.

____

Phil woke as soon as the screen of Clint’s phone flashed in the darkness of the bedroom. He lay blinking until he recognized the light for what it was, and then closed his eyes again to go back to sleep. His muscles still felt liquid and warm, well-used, and he didn’t bother trying to move as Clint shifted, stretching across to reach for his phone and a hearing aid. There was a muttered “hold on” and then more wiggling about until Clint had slid out of the far side of the bed and made his way over to stand near the window. Phil opened his eyes to admire the glimmer of the nighttime blue of city lights that kissed Clint’s muscled body.

“Hey, Nat. You okay?” Clint’s voice came out gruff, hoarse with sleep and the shouting he’d done while Phil had eaten him out, working him open so slowly on the tip of his tongue. 

Remembering made Phil shiver, and he tried to keep his breathing even, not wanting to interrupt Clint’s conversation. He let his mind drift, not trying to listen to Clint’s end of the conversation, content to watch the shape of Clint move, slightly blurred without the benefit of lenses.

“Well, yeah, I already figured that,” Clint said, and Phil could hear the smile in his voice. “And I already made my choice.” There was a pause, and Clint laughed, suddenly loud and real. “I proposed.”

Phil couldn’t resist rubbing his thumb against the band on his finger, unable to keep the sappy smile from growing on his face in the dark.

“No, I _know_ that. I asked him to _stay_ married to me.” Clint huffed out half a laugh. “To like live together and be married for real and shit.”

Another long pause and Clint barked one sharp, loud laugh. 

“Of _course_ he said yes!” Clint sounded smug and happy and amazed, all at once. “He loves me.”

Clint moved away from the window, walking back toward the bed. Phil closed his eyes, hoping his wakefulness hadn’t been noticed. 

“So yes. That _is_ my plan, at this point.” Clint sucked in a deep breath as he sank down to the edge of the bed. “No, I hadn’t told him yet. Wanted to talk to you first. Yeah. I know. But you’re important to me, too. Okay. I’ll call you in the morning. And Nat? I love you.”

The phone clicked softly against the nightstand, and a silence that seemed interminable until Clint sighed again, moving around for a minute until he crawled back onto the bed He looped one arm around Phil’s waist, scooting in until his breath dusted across Phil’s lips, and Phil quit pretending Hawkeye hadn’t seen his eyes open in the darkness.

“So Black Widow and Hawkeye are coming in.” Phil made it the statement he’d meant it to be, knowing there was no question left.

“Yeah. Nat’s leaning toward that consultant thing Fury was talking about.” Clint wiggled closer, reaching to his ear to catch one hearing aid, pressing it back into place.

“But you’re coming aboard full-time?” Phil’s pulse kicked up as he suddenly had a flash of his fondest wishes coming true, of getting everything he could dream up. Well, okay, maybe not the fantasy of finding Captain America alive and having him rejoin SHIELD.

“Yes.” Clint pressed closer, wrapping his leg over Phil’s thigh, and Phil wiggled his arms around Clint’s ribs, pulling him in close. “I’m ready to be home.”

Phil tightened his embrace until he could give Clint a solid, vicious hug.

“You already _are_ home, Clint,” Phil said softly, burrowing his face into Clint’s throat. “Tomorrow we’ll have to go get Nat so she can start setting up her room. It has its own full bath in there, too, so she won’t have to share with us.”

“Wait, Phil, you mean…” Clint pulled himself free and reached across Phil to flip on a bedside lamp. “You would do that? You’d take in two of us? _Here?_ ”

“She’s your family, Clint.” Phil sat up and shrugged, covering Clint’s hand with his own and toying with the ring on Clint’s finger. “If she doesn’t _want_ to live here, that’s fine. But...I thought you’d want to keep her close.”

“You really mean that,” Clint’s face filled with wonder as he looked up at Phil, lamplight turning his eyes green and gold. “How are you even real?”

“There will be a few downsides to living here for you, of course.” Phil pursed his lips, trying to keep his expression serious. By the sparkle that lit in Clint’s eyes, he assumed he’d failed. “You might wake up with a spare couple of Agents on your feet some mornings. If we’re lucky. If we’re _un_ lucky, we’ll wake up to find them snuggled between us. But that’s only likely after missions blow up on us.”

“I _will_ sleep naked,” Clint warned. “I will sleep naked and wake you up with blowjobs. Don’t think I won’t. If they don’t give us warning before they appear in our bed, of course. With adequate warning, I’ll put on pjs and save sucking you off for the shower.”

“That sounds like a good compromise,” Phil agreed solemnly, kissing Clint on the tip of his nose.

“If Nat lives here, we won’t be able to have loud, screaming sex when she’s home. She is not above knifing us both in our sleep.” Clint sat up to remove his hearing aids, turning them off and setting them gently beside his phone. “I guess we’d better take advantage of our last guaranteed night of freedom to fuck.”

 _Good plan, Agent_. Phil exaggerated each letter as he spelled the title. He reached out to run his palm down Clint’s stomach, sliding it between Clint’s thighs and squeezing gently. “You’re going to be amazing.” He spoke the words directly into Clint’s ear, and Clint pushed him back to look in his eyes.

“You already are, Phil,” Clint said, tilting their foreheads together. “You already are.”

Phil shifted, covering Clint’s body with his own, bracketing his body between his own arms, holding him close, safe, _there_. He still owed Jasper that fruit basket for screwing up the paperwork; without that one small mistake, Phil would never have gotten here, sharing a bed and planning a life with his happily ever after.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Wrapping Up
> 
> Make sure you caught the deleted scene from chapter 20 of Male Order Bride, published separately as [Nick and Zeg Go Home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4432535)
> 
> With a special _super_ big thanks to [Laura Kaye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye) for her incredible beta on this chapter while Kathar is out of town and without wifi access. It’s INCREDIBLY difficult to come in to a beast of a work like this one and help guide it along for twenty thousand words, and she not only did it, she helped to make it _so much better_. 
> 
> If you haven’t started her Clint/Coulson work in progress, [My Heart in Hiding](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3067166/chapters/6656288), you are _really_ missing out. It _also_ has a mail order bride theme, although hers takes place in outer space! The best part is that we’d played with ideas that turned into each other’s stories...All without ever discussing them before we began writing! She and I consider hers and this story to be siblings, so go enjoy MOB’s sister story and all the lovely warmth and love and a wee bit of angst to season it up just right.


	22. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. You're the BEST!

Clint, signed on with SHIELD from the beginning, of course, mostly to get it out of the way and start working to get his security clearance high enough that Phil could talk about work when he came home. After his six weeks of training in DC, Clint arrived in New York during office hours. Everything _would_ have been fine, if he hadn’t gotten lost on the way to Phil’s office. 

Jasper spent the three days after Phil and Clint’s reunion hiding in his own office, furiously texting the newly appointed Assistant Director Maria Hill and begging her to move the good coffeemaker from break room seven to somewhere further away from Agents Coulson and Barton. Or, should moving the coffee prove unacceptable, he requested that Agents Coulson and Barton themselves be moved further away from breakroom seven. Preferably to a colder climate that might force them to slow down a bit. Hill responded that he should either suck it up or take video so she could enjoy the show next time. She also promised enough oral pleasure to make him forget and to apologize again for her refusal to engage in office debauchery. She also reminded him that cold would likely only lead to further intensive cuddling between Clint and Phil and suggested he just _try not to think about the two of them going at it like rabbits every second they’re alone._

Jasper suggested she kiss his ass. She returned the insult. It’s rumored around the office that he later complied.

Natasha moved into SHIELD in stages, first agreeing to help coordinate a mission against some of her former associates (the same ones that had broken her arm and been _mostly_ punished by Clint on his mission to rescue her), and then gradually becoming more and more involved in minor missions that grew into larger missions. Two years after that first, informal meeting with Director Fury, she signed on full-time. 

She was assigned as Clint’s full-time partner, and their missions were assigned to Phil whenever they needed someone to oversee the operation. Very rarely, they were sent out separately, and Natasha was always given whomever she asked for on her team. Clint was given whomever Fury needed to teach a new skill or a lesson, depending on who had screwed something up or who had pissed him off. Everyone credited Phil for bringing in Fury’s favorite assets, and Phil basked in their reflected glory. He _did_ find that he had a harder time convincing his coworkers with his Mild-Mannered Paperpusher act once they’d met his husband, however. 

That seemed a small price to pay for actually _having_ said husband.

Ian Quinn found himself without many SHIELD contracts he’d once had; he was informed they’d been given instead to Stark Industries with no reason stated. He also found himself moving on and off the No-Fly List, so he would sometimes be pulled out of line for additional searching, and he would sometimes be pulled out of line to be detained. He finally demanded a meeting with Director Fury, storming into the half-built Triskellion with several of his government-related cronies around him. 

When Fury’s very tall, very slim, very _male_ -appearing secretary came out to inform the waiting crowd that Fury would be free shortly, Quinn went very pale and then very green and then he made excuses and left. When asked if he’d seen a ghost, Quinn only replied that they all had, and they’d been lucky to make it out alive. He also warned the men around him to go home, pack up, and leave.

No one took him up on that, of course, thinking that poor Ian was only suffering from stress. The following week, several of them stepped down from their exalted positions in disgrace as their most scandalous secrets were leaked to the press. The last member of the group kept their job, cut their worse ties, and seemed to become a model public servant. When an interviewer later asked why he’d made such drastic changes, the man replied that Fortune had smiled on him. He then glanced around nervously, cleared his throat, and changed the subject.

Nick and Zeg, watching the livecast from home, toasted one another, and laughed until they were breathless.

As for Director Fury at work, he began taking lunch breaks daily, usually when a walrus of a man with apparently unlimited government access brought his food. The man’s name badge read only “Basil” with no last name or security number showing. Occasionally, on days that work ran late, the smell of supper drifted out of Fury’s office late in the day, along with a musical laugh and the occasional happy sigh. A back door to wherever Fury worked that day would register as having been accessed, but the identity of the mysterious visitor remained unknown, and, somehow, no security cameras ever picked up an intruder. Fury also went on a total communications lockdown during his supper hour, and only the AD and a few choice people were allowed to call him or enter his office.

Jas, Mars, and Phil still went out for drinks during rough moments, but there were fewer personal upheavals in all of their lives. They would still dogpile into bed at their lowest points, but morning would see them waking as two pairs-- Jasper and Maria lying peacefully side by side and Phil curled tightly around Clint-- with Natasha curled like a great cat on the foot of the bed. On worse nights, they all draped together in a huddle of limbs, and everyone woke up wearing all of their clothing. On better nights, Phil and Clint’s recently obtained hide-a-bed sofa saw use, and everyone made lots of noise before entering or leaving any room, just to give the occupants time to grab a sheet or a pair of pants.

Natasha, Maria, and Jasper all knew there were days to avoid the Barton-Coulson apartment, for instance: days like the three or four after the end of a long separation. Anniversaries didn’t bear thinking on ( _No, Maria_ , Jasper had snapped, _not even for old time’s sake._ )

Years after Amsterdam, after Clint had come home, after Phil had fallen in love, and been given love and devotion and endless happiness in return for his heart, the two of them found a day to laze, naked and necking, on the sofa. After they’d moved to the bed to hurry things along, Phil looked down and noticed that his beautiful, boyish Anton had grown into an even more handsome Clint over the course of their decade together. As he ran his hands over Clint’s bare chest, soft skin and silky haired, he marveled that _this_ was his. Had been his. _Would be_ his, until death did them part. And not just the body, but the mind and the giant heart that went with it. All for Phil.

Clint must have understood something of the look in Phil’s eyes. He reached up to pull Phil into his embrace, wrapping his legs tightly around Phil’s waist, and, when he spoke, he used Russian.

“What is wrong?” He traced the lines at the corner of Phil’s eyes, deeper than they’d been when they’d met ten years before, but no less beautiful.

“Not a thing,” Phil whispered back in English, rocking his hips into Clint to make him sigh with pleasure. “Not a single, goddamn thing.”

“Happy anniversary, babe,” Clint answered, pulling Phil in closer with his arms and his legs.

And those were the last coherent words either of them spoke for quite a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many people without whom this would never have happened, and you each know who you are. Everyone who pitched in to beta, everyone who listened to me gripe and fuss, everyone who let me talk out a scene until I know where I was going with it. Everyone of you that clicked kudos and left me a comment, I owe much for this to you.
> 
> And to [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar), darling, I only hope you know half of what you mean to me, because even that’s a whole, big lot. This wouldn’t have even _begun_ without you cheering me on.
> 
> And so today I have accomplished one of my fondest dreams, something I’ve wished for and hoped for, and now, I’ve worked for it. I have completed an _actual novel_ , all by myself (with a lot of support and help and love). In addition, another dream came true today: I have a professionally published work out for the first time ever! 
> 
> What a ride this life has been. Thanks, fandom friends! More soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments, criticisms, observations, and conversation are always welcome, read and reread, cradled to my bosom and cooed over like wee babby kittens. Plus, come visit me on [Tumblr](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com) where I rant about writing, reblog entirely too many puns, and occasionally remember to post pictures of the many adventures of Wee!Coulson and Plastic!Phil.


End file.
